^^p^)))'^^-  'Z^r' 


v 


MARRYING  A  BEGGAR ; 


OS 


THE  ANGEL  IN  DISGUISE, 


AND 


rtr 


BY 


WILLIAM    T.  ADAMS. 


BOSTON: 
THA-YER   AND    ELDRIDGE, 

114  &  116  WASHINGTON  STBEET. 
1860. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  by 

WENTWORTH,   HEWES   &   CO. 
•  die  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetf 


•TIBEOTTPBD  AT  TRB 
BOITOH    IIBBKOTTPB    FOODBV. 


TO 


CHARLES    KIMBALL,    ESQ., 


IS  RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED, 


BY     HIS     FRIEND, 


WILLIAM  T.  ADAMS. 


2052378 


PREFACE. 


SOME  of  the  sketches  contained  in  this  volume 
appeared  in  the  Boston  True  Flag,  the  American  TJnwiv, 
and,  one  of  them,  —  "  The  New  Minister  "  —  in  Gfoa- 
son's  Pictorial ;  the  remainder  have  not  been  published 
before. 

A  great  variety  of  sketches  has  been  introduced, 
nearly  all  of  them  practical  in  their  application,  and 
illustrative  of  the  social  and  domestic  duties  of  life. 
No  attempt  at  "  fine  writing  "  has  been  made  in  them ; 
they  are  simply  home  thrusts  at  the  follies  of  the  parlor 
and  the  kitchen ;  of  the  shop  and  the  counting-room , 
in  short,  of  life  "  in  doors  and  out." 

The  author  is  encouraged  to  collect  these  simple  sto- 
ries in  a  volume  by  the  advice  of  partial  friends^  and 
by  a  desire   to   redeem  them  from  a  kind  of   literary 
1*  (5) 


6  PBEFACE. 

orphanage  to  which  the  unscrupulousness  of  some  reck- 
less man  of  paste  and  scissors  has  reduced  them.  Many 
of  them  are  now  travelling  over  the  country,  like  a 
dog  without  a  collar  ;  but  unlike  that  highly  respectable 
puppy  which  isn't  any  body's  dog,  they  have  an  anxious 
friend  at  home,  who  takes  this  method  of  calling  them 

back  to  the  fold  again. 

W.  T.  A. 

DOECHESTEK. 


CONTENTS 


PAOB 

MARRYING  A  BEGGAR,        .  * 11 

GOOD  FOR  NOTHINGS, 22 

Two  DAGUERREOTYPES,      ....  .        .      31 

Six  HUNDRED  A  YEAR,      .......40 

t 
THE  NEW  MINISTER, 49 

OUT  NIGHTS, ....63 

BRING  FLOWERS, 74 

THE  ACADEMY'S  PRIZE,      ......  84 

THE  DOMESTIC  ELEMENT,  .....  .94 

BANG  UP, •    .        ...    104 

THE  NEW  CLOAK,       .        .        .  * 114 

EVERY  THING  COMFORTABLE,    ......    125 

FAMILY  JARS, 138 

LIFE  INSURANCE, 153 

LAST  DAY  OF  GRACE,         .......    163 

MONTAGUE  AND  LADY, 174 

TAKING  THE  NEWSPAPERS,         ......     18* 

CIGARS  FOR  Two, 198 

(7) 


8  CONTENTS. 

OUT  OF  BUSINESS, .  208 

Six  MONTHS  AFTER  DATS,         ...       .       .        .        .  220 

WORLD  OF  TROUBLE, 230 

SEND  FOR  THE  DOCTOR,     .......  243 

FOUR  KINDS  OF  CASE,       .......  255 

EXTREMES  MEET,         ........  265 

THE  MERCANTILE  ANGEL,  .......  276 

CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CONCEITED  MAN,        ....  286 

THE  BACHELOR  BEAU, 295 

THE  GRAND  RECEPTION  BALL, 306 

GETTING  AN  INDORSER,      .        .  *     .        .                        .  320 


MARRYING  A  BEGGAR. 


MAEEYING  A  BEGGAE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  So  much  for  bringing  poor  relations  into  the  house  !  I 
really  believe  that  Charles  has  fallen  in  love  with  the  girl !  " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Mason  to  her  husband,  a  merchant  in  mod- 
erate circumstances  in  the  city  of  Boston. 

"  Well,  suppose  he  has  ;  she  is  a  good  girl,  is  she  not  ?  " 
quickly  responded  the  merchant. 

"  I  don't  know  but  that  she  is  good  enough ;  but  she  is  a 
pauper ! " 

"  Not  exactly  a  pauper,  Mrs.  Mason." 

"  Didn't  we  take  her  into  the  family  to  keep  her  from 
starving  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  so  understand  it.  You  needed  a  young  woman 
to  assist  you  in  sewing,  and  employed  her  at  half  the  usual 
wages." 

"  Yes,  and  isn't  she  a  pauper  for  all  that  ?  " 

"  Gently,  Mrs.  Mason  ;  you  forget  that  she  is  my  sister's 
daughter,"  said  the  merchant,  a  little  sternly. 

"  What  if  she  is  ?  She  is  a  penniless  girl  for  all  that. 
A  pretty  match  for  our  son  !  " 

"  And  why  not  for  our  son  ?  I  am  not  a  millionnaire. 
If  the  times  don't  come  easier  than  they  have  been,  I  shall 
fail  before  the  year  is  out." 

ttl) 


12  MARKYING   A   BEGGAE. 

"  So  much  the  more  reason  why  Charles  should  look  out 
for  himself." 

"  If  he  loves  my  niece,  I  sincerely  hope  he  will  marry  her, 
for  I  believe  she  is  one  of  the  be*st  girls  in  the  world ;  cer- 
tainly she  is  vastly  superior  to  the  silly,  affected,  mincing, 
novel-reading  misses  of  fashionable  society.  I  commend  his 
taste  and  his  judgment." 

"  "Well,  Mr.  Mason,  I  am  surprised  !  " 

"  Not  the  least  occasion  to  be  surprised." 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Mason,  that  I  never  will  consent 
to  see  Charles  throw  himself  away  on  a  pauper.  If  you 
haven't  the  spirit  to  prevent  so  disgraceful  a  match,  I  shall 
send  the  girl  away." 

"Don't  you -do  it,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Mason,  in  a  firm, 
decided  tone. 

"  I  shall  do  it ! "  replied  the  lady,  waxing  warm  at  the 
obstinacy  of  her  husband,  who,  in  trivial  matters,  was  in  the 
habit  of  letting  her  have  her  own  way. 

"  Better  not,"  quietly  responded  the  gentleman. 

"  The  minx  put  on  such  airs  and  smirked  so,  that  I  really 
believe  she  meant  to  catch  him." 

"  What,  Grace  ?  Impossible  !  She  is  a  little  gentle, 
quiet  thing,  and  I  am  sure  the  idea  of  a  flirtation  never  en- 
tered her  simple  head." 

"  Humph  !  "  sneered  the  lady.  "  I  know  better.  And 
now  that  he  is  really  making  love  to  her,  the  provoking  jade 
seems  to  look  upon  it  as  a  matter  of  course ;  thinks  it  just 
as  much  a  proper  thing  that  she  should  be  the  wife  of  our 
Charles,  as  though  she  had  been  born  a  princess  !  " 

"  Poor  thing !  I  suppose  she  is  human,  and  actually  lovei 
the  boy  ! " 


MAREYING   A   BEGGAR.  13 

"  Loves  him  or  not,  I'll  make  an  end  of  it." 

"  Don't  be  rash,  Mrs.  Mason,"  replied  the  husband,  twirl- 
ing in  his  fingers  a  buff  envelope,  marked  "  Telegraph." 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?  " 

"  I  had  almost  forgot  to  mention  that  brother  Joseph,  had 
arrived  in  New  York,  and  telegraphs  that  he  shall  be  here 
to-night  by  the  New  Haven  train." 

"  Just  like  you  !  Never  tell  of  a  thing  till  the  last  mo- 
ment !  "  said  the  lady,  petulantly. 

"  I  received  the  despatch  only  two  hours  ago." 

"  Here  is  another  kettle  of  fish,"  continued  the  lady,  mus- 
ing. "  That  everlasting  niece  of  yours  is  in  the  way  again." 

"  I  hope  the  poor  girl  has  no  more  sins  to  answer  for." 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  your  brother  Joseph  will  leave 
his  property  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  the  remotest  idea." 

"  Don't  you  suppose  that  angelic  niece  of  yours  will  whee- 
dle him  out  of  a  part  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  You  don't  want  he  should  leave  it  all  in  your  family, 
then  ?  "  sneered  the  lady. 

"  No,  I  hope  he  will  do  justly." 

"  I  wish  I  could  get  her  out  of  the  way  before  he  comes." 

"  Don't  attempt  it,  Mrs.  Mason,"  said  the  merchant,  with 
very  decided  emphasis. 

"  If  she  were  only  out  of  the  way,  Henrietta  would  come 
in  for  the  whole,"  added  the  lady,  as  she  hurried  out  of  the 
room  to  make  arrangements  for  the  reception  of  uncle  Jo- 
seph. 

2 


14  MAKBYING   A   BEGGAR. 


CHAPTER    II. 

UNCZE  JOSEPH  was  a  Calcutta  merchant,  in  which  capaci- 
ty he  had  accumulated  an  immense  fortune.  Being  a  bache- 
lor, the  probable'  disposition  of  his  property  became  a  ques- 
tion of  considerable  interest  among  his  relations. 

The  family  of  Mr.  Mason,  the  merchant  introduced  in  the 
last  chapter,  included  but  two  children,  a  son  and  a  daughter. 

Grace  was  the  only  daughter  of  a  sister,  recently  deceased, 
who  had  been  for  many  years  a  widow. 

It  was  supposed  that  uncle  Joseph  would  make  one  of  his 
nieces  his  heiress.  This  was  the  old  fellow's  whim,  and  no 
one  could  gainsay  the  whim  of  a  bachelor.  From  some  in- 
dications of  preference  which  he  had  bestowed  upon  Henri- 
etta in  her  childhood,  it  was  generally  believed  that  she 
would  prove  to  be  the  fortunate  one. 

Henrietta  had  been  educated  to  be  a  lady.  Her  delicate 
fingers  were  never  soiled  by  rude  collision  with  pots  and 
kettles,  and  she  had  been  taught  to  believe  that  it  was 
delicate  sensibility  to  be  afraid  of  a  spider  or  a  bullfrog. 
She  played  the  piano  with  passable  skill,  and  lingered  away 
half  her  time  at  full  length  on  the  sofa,  poring  over  the  con- 
tents of  a  novel. 

Such  was  the  prospective  heiress  of  uncle  Joseph's  large 
fortune.  Her  father  was  far  from  approving  the  education 
she  had  received,  and  had  used  all  the  influence  he  possessed, 
short  of  quarrelling,  to  have  these  defects  remedied. 

Uncle  Joseph  came,  and  was  welcomed  as  became  the  dig- 
nity of  one  who  had  a  fortune  to  bestow. 


MAEBYING   A   BEGGAB.  15 

Henrietta  thought  he  was  a  "  dear  love  "  of  a  man,  and 
she  wondered  that  the  ladies  ever  let  him  remain  a  bach- 
elor. 

Grace,  by  the  contrivance  of  Mrs.  Mason,  was  not  present 
when  her  uncle  arrived ;  but  Mr.  Mason,  understanding  the 
trick,  sought  her  in  person,  and  introduced  her  to  the  man 
of  money. 

The  poor  girl  was  too  modest  and  retiring  to  force  herself 
upon  the  notice  of  uncle  Joseph,  who  was  too  deeply  ab- 
sorbed by  the  unremitting  attentions  of  Henrietta  to  perceive 
her  situation,  or  discover  the  menial  capacity  in  which  she 
acted. 

At  tea,  uncle  Joseph  complained  of  being  ill,  and  said 
that  he  had  not  been  well  since  he  landed  on  the  previous 
day 

Mrs.  Mason  and  her  daughter  were  all  sympathy.  The 
ailing  bachelor  was  conducted  to  his  apartment,  and  herb 
teas  and  jugs  of  hot  water  were  put  in  requisition.  Henri- 
etta volunteered  to  sit  all  night  by  his  bedside  and  minister 
to  his  wants  ;  but  the  sick  man  did  not  deem  it  necessary. 

During  all  this  confusion  Grace  was  not  to  be  seen.  She 
was  not  permitted  to  assist  in  the  preparations  for  the  sick 
man's  comfort;  every  thing  must  be  done  by  Henrietta's 
own  hand. 

Notwithstanding  the  kind  attentions  lavished  upon  uncle 
Joseph,  there  was  no  improvement  in  his  condition ;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  he  rapidly  grew  worse,  and  at  midnight  the 
physician  was  sent  for.  Henrietta  had  not  left  the  bedside 
for  a  moment.  She  was  the  most  devoted  creature  in  the 
world,  and  the  bachelor  could  not  but  contrast  her  devotion 
with  the  utter  neglect  of  Grace,  who  had  not  once  entered 


16  MARttYIXG    A    BEGGAR. 

his  room,  even  to  inquire  how  he  did.  Henrietta's  prospects 
were  decidedly  brilliant. 

The  physician  came,  and  after  feeling  the  pulse  of  the 
sufferer,  inquired  where  he  resided  when  at  home. 

Uncle  Joseph  replied  that  he  had  no  home  —  had  just 
come  from  Calcutta. 

"  I  see,"  said  the  physician.  "  Was  there  any  sickness  on 
board  the  ship  ?  " 

"  There  was.  I  came  by  the  overland  route  to  Liverpool, 
thence  by  a  New  York  liner.  There  was  a  steerage  full 
of  emigrants  on  board,  among  whom  the  fever  raged  fear- 
fully." 

"  Just  so,"  returned  the  physician,  "  and  you  have  got  the 

• 
ship  fever." 

"  The  ship  fever  !  "  exclaimed  Henrietta,  rushing  out  of 
the  room. 

The  sick  man  turned,  and  witnessed  her  abrupt  departure. 
With  a  sigh,  such  as  can  only  be  wrung  from  a  bachelor 
conscious  of  his  loneliness,  he  drew  the  bedclothes  closely 
around  him,  and  apparently  abandoned  himself  to  the  fate 
which  the  dreadful  disease  seemed  to  foreshadow. 

The  physician  made  up  his  prescription  and  retired.  No 
one  was  left  with  uncle  Joseph  but  his  brother. 

"  I  am  deserted,  brother,"  said  the  sick  man. 

"  No,  brother,  I  am  here." 

"  But  there  is  no  hand  of  woman  here  ;  well,  it  is  a  dread- 
ful disease,"  and  the  sufferer  sighed  again. 

Mr.  Mason  went  down  to  the  sitting  room,  whither  his 
wife  and  daughter  had  fled. 

"  How  is  this,  wife  ?  Is  Joseph  to  be  abandoned  now  that 
he  most  needs  attention  ?  "  asked  he  of  Mrs.  Mason. 


MARRYING   A   BEGGAR.  17 

X 

"  You  don't  think  we  are  going  to  stay  in  the  same  room 
with  the  ship  fever  ?  "  replied  Mrs. -Mason. 

"  You  may  as  well  be  in  the  room  as  in  the  house." 

"  We  must  leave  the  house  immediately.  "Why  did  he 
not  go  to  the  hospital  ?  It  was  not  very  considerate  of  him 
to  bring  the  ship  fever  into  the  family.  He  might  have 
known  that  he  had  it." 

"  Heaven  forgive  your  heartlessness  !  But  is  my  brother 
to  die  with  no  one  to  care  for  him  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Mason, 
udignantly. 

"  You  must  hire  a  nurse." 

"  And  you  will  desert  him  ?  " 

"  We  can't  stay  where  the  ship  fever-is." 

"  No,  papa,  it  would  be  suicidal,"  added  Henrietta.  "  His 
fortune  would  do  us  no  good  if  we  caught  the  fever." 

"  Go,  then  !  but  there  is  still  one  in  the  house  who  has 
a  heart,"  replied  Mr.  Mason,  as  he  left  the  room  to  seek  the 
apartment  of  Grace.  » 

Grace  was  ready  in  a  moment  to  attend  her  uncle  to  the 
sick  room,  where,  regardless  of  the  danger  of  contagion,  she 
laved  the  burning  brow  of  the  sufferer,  and  did  all  that  an 
angel  hand  could  do  to  render  him  comfortable. 

Early  in  the  morning,  Mrs.  Mason  and  her  daughter  de- 
parted for  the  residence  of  a  friend  in  the  country. 


CHAPTER    III. 

FOR  several  weeks  Grace,  with  such  assistance  as  Mr.  Ma- 
son and  Charles   could    give,   nursed  the  invalid   with  the 
most  untiring  devotion.     All  her  time  was  spent  by  his  bed- 
2* 


18  MAREYING  A   BEGGAR. 

side.  She  was  all  gentleness  and  sympathy,  bearing  pa- 
tiently with  his  petulance  and  ill  humor,  and  never  betray- 
ing the  slightest  appearance  of  anger  when  he  scolded  and 
even  swore  at  her. 

The  fever  turned,  and  he  began  to  mend.  He  was  now 
out  of  danger,  and  rapidly  advancing  to  complete  restoration. 

The  physician  commended  the  skill  and  devotion  of  his 
nurse,  assuring  him  that  he  owed  his  life  to  her. 

But  the  devotion  of-  the  poor  girl  cost  her  dearly ;  for 
scarcely  had  uncle  Joseph  recovered  before  she  was  taken 
down  with  the  fever,  and  for  weeks  languished  on  the  very 
verge  of  the  grave. 

Yet  there  was  no  female  hand  to  lave  her  brow  save  that 
of  a  hired  nurse.  Charles  Mason  loved  her  as  he  did  his 
own  existence,  and  day  and  night  he  watched  over  her  with 
a  constancy  and  a  devotion  worthy  the  loving  heart  of  the 
gentler  sex. 

Uncle  Joseph,  too,  was  an  anxious  watcher  round  her  bed. 
Though  he  was  a  bachelor,  and  had  spent  the  greater  part 
of  his  life  in  India,  away  from  the  gentle  influences  of  female 
society,  he  showed  an  aptness  in  the  sick  room  that  would 
have  done  honor  to  a  Benedict. 

To  the  intense  relief  of  her  devoted  friends,  Grace  recov- 
ered. The  disease  was  now  banished  from  the  house,  and 
Mrs.  Mason  and  Henrietta  ventured  to  return. 

"I  trust  you  have  had  a  pleasant  visit,  madam,"  said 
uncle  Joseph,  coldly. 

"Pleasant!  nay,  far  from  it.  You  do  us  injustice;  we 
were  perfectly  miserable  on  account  of  your  dangerous  ill- 
ness." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  uncle  Joseph,  with  a  sneer. 


MAKBYING    A    BEGGAR.  19 

The  love  between  Charles  and  Grace,  strengthened  by  the 
scenes  of  suffering  through  which  they  had  passed,  was  now 
an  unalterable  sentiment.  Of  course  uncle  Joseph  had  not 
witnessed  their  mutual  devotion  to  him  in  his  illness  with- 
out suspecting  the  existence  of  some  strong  bond  of  union 
between  them.  And  the  young  man's  untiring  attention  to 
her  in  her  own  sickness  had  confirmed  the  opinion. 

Seeking  a  favorable  opportunity,  he  conversed  with  Charlea 
upon  the  subject,  who  readily  admitted  his  affection.  The 
bachelor  recommended  an  immediate  marriage. 

The  step  was  not,  of  course,  ungrateful  to  the  feelings  of 
the  lover.  .And  the  desire  to  redeem  Grace  from  the  life  of 
drudgery  to  which  she  was  reduced  by  the  heartlessness  of 
his  mother,  seemed  to  demand  their  immediate  union. 

The  young  man's  intentions  were  soon  noised  through  the 
family.  Mrs.  Mason  renewed  the  opposition  she  had  before 
made,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  threaten  that,  if  she  could 
not  break  up  the  match,  she  would  imbitter  the  lives  of  the 
parties. 

Uncle  Joseph  remonstrated. 

"  May  I  ask,  madam,  what  objection  you  can  possibly  have 
to  the  marriage  ?  "  said  he,  with  considerable  sternness  in 
his  manner. 

"  What  objection  !  why,  the  girl  is  a  beggar ;  I  have  em- 
ployed her  in  my  family  to  keep  her  out  of  the  almshouse, 
which,  I  think,  is  objection  enough,"  replied  Mrs.  Mason, 
disliking  the  interference  of  uncle  Joseph. 

"  Your  son,  I  think,  is  not  wealthy,  so  that  he  need  not 
demand  a  rich  wife." 

"  He  need  not  marry  a  beggar,  though." 

"  She  is  worthy  a  prince,  beggar  though  she  is." 


20  MAEETING   A   BEGGAB. 

"  O,  very  likely,"  sneered  the  lady. 

"  I  owe  my  life  to  her,  and  I  can  never  cease  to  be  grate- 
ful to  her.  When  others  forsook  me,  she  was  constant," 
replied  uncle  Joseph,  pointedly. 

"  She  knew  you  were  rich,"  said  Mrs.  Mason,  sarcastically. 

"So  did  you  and  your  amiable  daughter.  You  were  like 
angels  round  my  pillow  till  the  doctor  said  '  ship  fever,'  when 
you  fled  like  two  frightened  sheep." 

The  lady  looked  as  black  as  a  thunder  cloud. 

"  I  trust  you  will  withdraw  your  objections  to  this  mar- 
riage, Mrs.  Mason.  You  perceive  that  Charles  is  resolute, 
and  will  have  his  own  way  about  it,"  continued  uncle  Joseph, 
in  a  more  pliable  tone. 

"  His  own  way !  All  this  for  bad  advising !  I  cannot 
prevent  it,  perhaps ;  but  I  will  never  consent  to  it.  No  !  a 
son  of  mine  shall  never  have  my  consent  to  marry  a  beggar 
girl." 

"  Madam,  she  is  no  longer  a  beggar.  She  is  the  heiress 
of  all  my  fortune,"  said  uncle  Joseph,  with  sudden  energy. 

Mrs.  Mason's  brow  contracted. 

"  And  Henrietta  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Never  touches  a  penny  !  She  deserted  me  when  I  most 
needed  a  friend,"  replied  the  bachelor,  vehemently.  "  If  I 
had  ten  thousand  fortunes,  they  would  be  but  a  poor  return 
for  all  that  Grace  has  done  for  me.  I  make  over  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars  to  the  newly-married  couple  as  soon  as  the  knot 
is  tied  ;  the  residue  at  my  decease." 

The  marriage  took  place  soon  after.  The  ceremony  was 
performed  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Mason,  in  spite  of  the  oppo- 
sition of  his  wife ;  for  when  the  merchant  said  it  should  be 
so,  he  had  the  firmness  to  carry  his  point. 


MAKRYIXG    A    BEGGAR.  21 

The  newly-married  couple  took  up  their  residence  in  a 
beautiful  house,  purchased  for  them  by  uncle  Joseph,  who 
consented  to  make  his  home  with  them. 

Henrietta  is  now  five-and-thirty  years  of  age,  and  an 
"  old  maid."  Mrs.  Mason  still  continues  to  be  a  termagant, 
though  her  husband  maintains  his  integrity  with  firmness 
and  decision.  She  has  never  forgiven  uncle  Joseph  for 
making  Grace  the  heiress,  and  probably  never  will.  But  the 
worthy  bachelor  never  ceases  to  rejoice  over  the  disposition 
lie  has  made  of  his  property,  and  probably  he  never  will. 


"GOOD  FOR  NOTHINGS." 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  YOUK  girl  is  a  prize,  Mrs.  Bagley,"  said  Mrs.  Veazie,  a 
lady  whose  physiognomy  was  rather  indicative  of  a  sour 
temper. 

"Bridget  is  a  good  girl,"  responded  the  lady  addressed; 
"  and  she  has  been  with  me  over  a  year  now." 

"  Indeed  !  Over  a  year  !  Well,  I  am  astonished  !  For 
my  part,  if  I  get  a  good  girl,  I  can't  keep  her." 

"  I  have  "been  very  fortunate  in  that  respect." 

"  You  have  indeed.  O  dear !  it  is  really  terrible  to  think 
how  much  one  is  dependent  upon  these  Irish  servant  girls. 
They  are  such  lazy,  impudent,  good-for-nothing  creatures, 
that  it  is  enough  to  weary  out  one's  life." 

"  Some  of  them  are.  If  I  had  been  so  unfortunate  as  to 
get  such  a  one  as  you  describe,  I  should  instantly  discharge 
her.  But  very  few  are  of  that  description." 

"  Very  few  !  Let  me  tell  you  that  your  girl  is  one  in  a 
thousand,  Mrs.  Bagley.  Where  you  find  one  who  is  honest, 
faithful,  and  respectful,  you  will  find  nine  hundred  and  nine- 
ty-nine who  are  just  the  reverse." 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  it,"  replied  the  good-natured  Mrs. 
Bagley,  with  a  smile  of  incredulity  upon  her  pleasant 
features. 

(22) 


GOOB    FOE    NOTHINGS.  23 

"  It  is  as  true  as  the  gospel !  Why,  I  have  had  no  less 
than  ten  different  girls  within  a  year." 

"  Ten !     Is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  And  my  family  is  no  larger  and  the  work  is  no  harder 
than  yours.  Isn't  it  singular-?  " 

Politeness  compelled  Mrs.  Bagley  to  answer  that  it  was 
singular ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  she  knew  that  it  was  not  so 
very  singular,  after  all.  If  she  had  felt  at  liberty  to  do  so, 
she  could  have  given  her  friend  a  solution  of  the  mystery. 

"  And  the  girl  I  have  now  I  shall  be  compelled  to  dis- 
charge. She  is  discontented,  impudent,  and  overbearing." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you." 

"  She  is  a  capital  girl  in  every  other  respect,  and  I  am 
sorry  to  part  with  her.  She  is  a  good  cook,  and  —  what 
you  don't  find  in  many  girls  —  understands  pastry,  cake,  and 
puddings." 

"  Too  bad  to  lose  her,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Bagley,  with  a 
greater  appearance  of  sympathy  in  her  speech  than  found  a 
place  in  her  heart. 

"  It  is  ;  but  one  cannot  put  up  with  impudence,  you  know. 
I  would  send  off  the  best  girl  in  the  world  before  I  would 
submit  to  it."  "  ' 

"  Certainly ;  impudence  cannot  be  tolerated.  Can't  you 
teach  her  better  ?  " 

"  No  ;  she  won't  hear  to  any  thing.  It  was  only  the  other 
day,  when  I  saw  her  washing  the  potatoes  in  the  wash-hands 
basin,  that  I  merely  called  her  a  nasty,  good-for-nothing 
hussy  ;  and,  don't  you  think,  the  impudent  jade  told  me  to 
mind  my  own  business,  and  not  to  be  sticking  my  nose  into 
her  affairs  !  Did  any  one  ever  hear  the  like  ?  " 

Mrs.  Bagley  only  smiled.     If  she  had  lived  in  a  less  civ- 


24  GOOD   FOB   NOTHINGS. 

ilized  era,  perhaps  she  would  have  been  blunt  enough  to  say 
that  the  fault  was  partly  with  the  mistress,  and  not  wholly 
with  the  servant. 

"  And  then  she  is  so  ugly,"  continued  Mrs.  Veazie,  "  that 
I  dare  not  trust  my  children  with  her."  . 

"  I  leave  the  baby  with  Bridget  for  half  a  day  sometimes, 
and  feel  perfectly  safe." 

"My  girl  don't  like  children;  I  know  she  hates  them. 
"Why,  only  yesterday  I  told  her  she  might  leave  the  washing 
for  an  hour  or  so,  and  take  Charley  out  in  the  little  wagon ; 
and,  don't  you  think,  she  had  the  impudence  to  tell  me  that, 
if  I  wanted  Charley  taken  out,  I  might  take  him  out  myself ! 
I  never  was  so  provoked  in  my  life." 

Mrs.  Bagley's  good  nature  was  all  exhausted ;  and,  at  the 
risk  of  being  deemed  uncivil,  she  had  the  hardihood  to  say 
she  never  took  Bridget  away  from  her  washing  unless  in  a 
case  of  absolute  necessity. 

"  Wasn't  this  a  case  of  absolute  necessity  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Veazie,  with  a  rather  uncompromising  look  upon  her  sharp 
features. 

Poor  Mrs.  Bagley !  She  was  in  for  it,  and  must  needs 
defend  the  policy  at  which  she  had  incautiously  hinted. 

"  I  should  say  not,"  replied  she,  not  a  little  fearful  that 
she  was  about  to  "  stir  up  strife." 

"  What  would  you  do  ?  Charley  ought  to  have  the  fresh 
air  every  day." 

"  I  should  have  taken  him  out  myself;  for  it  is  very  an- 
noying to  a  girl  to  be  called  away  from  the  wash  tub.  She 
has  to  change  her  dress,  which  is  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and 
leave  her  clothes  in  the  water  or  on  the  fire." 

"  Yes,  girls  are  desperate  'fraid  of  a  little  trouble." 


GOOD   FOE   NOTHINGS.  25 

"  If  they  feel  any  pride  about  their  work,  they  like  to 
nave  it  done  up  in  good  season,  you  know." 

"  And  she  insists  upon  being  absent  every  fourth  Sunday.** 

"  I  let  Bridget  go  every  third  Sunday." 

"You  do?" 

"  I  think  it  very  reasonable." 

*'  Who  gets  your  dinner  Sundays  ?  " 

"  What  little  we  get  I  attend  to  myself.  But  we  always 
have  baked  beans  Sunday,  so  that  I  don't  have  to  stay  at 
home  from  meeting." 

"  And  you  wash  the  dishes  yourself ! "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Veazie,  in  utter  astonishment. 

"  Certainly.  The  fact  is,  these  Irish  girls  are  human  be- 
ings, after  all,  and  need  a  little  recreation  as  well  as  the  rest 
of  us." 

**  But  they  take  advantage.' 

"  If  you  give  them  no  advantages,  they  will  take  them. 
I  have  found  out  that,  the  better  you  use  good  girls,  tho 
more  faithfully  they  will  serve  you.  I  make  it  a  point  to  treat 
my  girl  well ;  and,  having  secured  her  good  will,  I  feel  a 
reasonable  assurance  that  she  will  do  the  best  she  can 
for  me." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  don't  treat  my  girl  well  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Veazie,  her  features  coloring  under  the  insinuation 
she  believed  was  aimed  at  her. 

"Certainly  not.  My  remark  was  intended  to  be  very 
general."  • 

Mrs.  Veazie  went  home ;  and,  though  she  was  a  little  an- 
gry with  her  neighbor,  she  "  set  to  thinking  "  upon  what  she 
had  heard. 


26  GOOD   FOE   NOTHINGS. 


CHAPTER    II. 

Mas.  EAGLET'S  girl,  Bridget,  had  a  beau,  and,  in  the 
course  of  events,  was  married.  Her  mistress,  though  ex- 
ceedingly sorry  to  part  with  her,  could  of  course  make  'no 
objections  to  her  working  out  her  woman's  destiny.  She 
•was  a  good-hearted  person,  and  did  all  she  could  to  see  the 
faithful  girl,  who  had  been  almost  a  mother  to  her  children, 
comfortably  situated  in  her  new  relation. 

Her  first  attempt  to  procure  another  good  girl  proved  to 
be  unsuccessful ;  for  the  new  servant  was,  beyond  the  hope 
of  remedy,  slovenly  and  dirty.  She  was  compelled  to  dis- 
charge her. 

About  this  time  Mrs.  Veazie's  girl  was  discharged.  The 
lady,  profiting  by  the  lesson  she  had  received  of  her  neigh- 
bor, had  for  a  few  months  treated  Margaret  with  kindness 
and  consideration.  The  change  was  appreciated  by  the  girl. 
She  was  ignorant  and  headstrong ;  but  neither  so  ignorant 
nor  headstrong  as  not  to  be  able  to  understand  the  meaning 
of  kind  words  and  considerate  actions. 

Mrs.  Veazie  was  astonished  at  the  change  in  the  temper  of 
the  girl ;  and,  for  a  time,  she  persevered  in  maintaining  the 
new  order  of  things.  But  it  is  useless  for  any  one  to  at- 
tempt to  be  gentle  and  kind  in  their  speech  and  action  when 
there  is  neither  gentleness  nor  kindness  in  the  heart.  A 
"  change  of  heart,"  in  the  language  of  the  Scriptures,  is  as 
necessary  to  make  an  ill-tempered  person  amiable  towards 
others  as  it  is  in  the  working  out  of  the  more  technical 


GOOD    FOB    NOTHINGS.  27 

"  profession  "  of  religion.  A  "  profession  "  of  good  nature 
is  the  first  step  towards  piety. 

When  Mrs.  Veazie  relapsed,  Margaret  relapsed,  and  there 
was  strife  again.  No  sooner  did  the  servant  observe  the  un- 
reasonableness of  the  mistress  than  she  was  in  open  rebellion 
again,  as  saucy  as  ever. 

"  I  am  determined  to  send  her  off,  Mrs.  Bagley,"  said  she, 
as  she  was  seated  with  her  neighbor  one  afternoon. 

"Send  her  off!  Why,  I  thought  she  was  doing  nicely 
now." 

"  So  she  was ;  but  this  morning  a  couple  of  tons  of  coal 
came,  and,  as  I  had  no  one  to  get  it  in,  I  told  her  she  might 
do  it.  I  am  sure  I  spoke  very  pleasantly  to  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Veazie,  with  an  abundance  of  self-complacency. 

Mrs.  Bagley  held  up  both  hands  in  astonishment. 

"  What  diS  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  told  me  very  coolly  that  she  had  rather  not  do  it. 
But  I  was  angry  then  ;  I  thought  it  was  about  time  to  be 
angry,  too,  when  a  girl  answered  me  in  that  way ;  so  I  told 
her  she  was  a  lazy,  good-for-nothing  minx." 

"  Did  you  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  did." 

"  Well,  what  did  she  say  then  ?  " 

" '  The  same  to  yourself,  ma'am,'  says  she.  She  has  not 
been  saucy  before  for  a  good  while." 

"  Didn't  it  occur  to  you  that  your  request  was  slightly 
unreasonable?  " 

"  I'm  sure  it  didn't.  Why,  these  girls  are  used  to  working 
in  the  fields  in  Ireland,  digging  turf  and  pounding  stones.  I 
don't  see  why  they  should  be  so  stuck  up  when  they  come  tc 
America." 


28  GOOD   FOR   NOTHINGS. 

"Well,  I  suppose,  when  they  come  to  a  country  where 
even  the  rights  of  the  poor  are  respected,  they  think  better 
of  themselves  —  very  naturally  too,  I  think.  But,  Mrs. 
Veazie,  if  you  are  going  to  discharge  Margaret,  I  should 
like  to  take  her/' 

"  You  ?  " 

*'  If  you  have  no  objection." 

"  Of  course  not ;  but  she  never  will  suit  you,  I  know." 

And  Margaret  went  to  live  with  Mrs.  Bagley.  She  was 
an  able,  capable,  and  industrious  girl,  and  her  mistress  im- 
mediately took  a  great  liking  to  her.  Margaret  had  her 
faults,  the  most  prominent  of  which  was  a  quick  temper,  that 
often  prompted  her  to  give  a  saucy  or  a  spiteful  answer  be- 
fore she  was  aware. 

She  had  not  been  a  week  with  Mrs.  Bagley  before,  without 
a  reasonable  provocation,  she  gave  her  mistress  a  short  and 
crusty  answer.  No  notice  was  taken  of  it,  though  the  point 
was  insisted  upon  and  carried.  A  few  days  after,  when  she 
got  a  little  perplexed,  she  was  saucy ;  but  Mrs.  Bagley  was 
as  firm  as  she  was  even  in  her  temper,  and  calmly  rebuked 
the  uncivil  words.  Margaret  was  abashed  by  the  gentleness 
and  decision  of  the  rebuke,  and  readily  understood  with 
•what  manner  of  person  she  had  to  deal.  She  was  conquered, 
and  made  as  good  a  girl  as  the  most  obdurate  of  servant 
hunters  could  possibly  desire. 

In  the  course  of  the  year  Bridget's  husband  was  killed  on 
the  railroad,  and  the  poor  girl  found  herself  again  compelled 
to  go  out  to  service.  Mrs.  Bagley  was  well  suited  with 
Margaret,  and  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  discharge  her,  es- 
pecially as  both  parties  were  satisfied. 

Mrs.  Veazie  had  tried  half  a  dozen  girls  since  Margaret 


GOOD   FOE   NOTHINGS.  29 

had  left  her,  and,  as  usual,  had  been  unable  to  retain  them. 
It  was  with  a  thrill  of  satisfaction  she  heard  that  Bridget, 
"  the  prize  of  a  girl,"  wanted  a  place  again,  and  she  lost  not 
a  moment  in  making  an  engagement  with  her. 

About  a  week  after  this  important  event,  Mrs.  Veazie  came 
in  hot  haste  over  to  Mrs.  Bagley's. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  exclaimed  she,  out  of  breath,  "  that 
Bridget  has  given  me  notice  of  her  intention  to  leave." 

"  To  leave  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  don't  believe  she  meant  to  stay  when  she  came." 

"  I  think  she  did.  Bridget  wouldn't  do  a  mean  action,  if 
she  is  an  Irish  girl." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that." 

"  But  how  did  it  happen  ?  " 

"  Why,  she  was  as  saucy  as  ever  Margaret  was  in  the 
world." 

"  Bridget  ?     Impossible ! " 

"  I  asked  her  as  politely  as  though  she  had  been  a  lady  if 
she  wouldn't  be  so  kind  as  to  black  Mr.  Veazie's  boots." 

"  And  she  refused  ?  " 

"  No  ;  •  she  did  it.  She  said  she  would  do  it  this  time 
but  she  had  rather  not  have  it  as  part  of  her  work." 

"  You  couldn't  blame  her,  could  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  could ;  and  I  told  her  she  was  a  lazy,  good- 
for-nothing  vixen,  and  that  she'd  have  to  do  it  every  day,  if 
she  staid  with  me.  Why,  Irish  girls  at  home  have  to  black 
their  masters'  boots." 

"  But  it  is  not  the  custom  here." 

"  It  ought  to  be ;  and  I  told  her,  up  and  down,  that  she 
was  not  what  she  used  to  be  when  she  lived  with  you.     Upon 
that  she  told  me  she  would  leave.     Did  you  ever  see  such 
3* 


30  GOOD    FOE   NOTHINGS. 

luck  as  I  have  ? ''  and  Mrs.  Veazie  puffed  with  excitement. 
She  really  believed  she  was  the  most  unfortunate  woman  in 
the  world. 

"  To  be  plain  with  you,  Mrs.  Veazie,  I  don't  think  Bridget 
was  in  the  least  to  blame." 

"  Not  to  blame  ?  " 

"  No.  When  you  set  your  girls  to  getting  in  coal  and 
•cleaning  boots,  you  must  expect  them  to  be  rebellious,  es- 
pecially when  you  follow  it  up  with  such  hard  words." 

Mrs.  Veazie  went  out,  and  slammed  the  door  after  her. 
She  has  never  crossed  the  threshold  of  her  friend's  door 
since ;  but  it  was  a  small  loss. 

The  moral  of  our  sketch  is-  sufficiently  apparent.  When 
we  hear  ladies  complaining  that  they  can't  keep  a  servant, 
we  are  a  little  disposed  to  doubt  whether  the  fault  is  not  in 
part  upon  their  side. 


THE  TWO  DAGUERREOTYPES. 

A  TEMPERANCE  TALE. 

CHAPTER    I. 

JIM  SCEOGGINS,  though  in  the  main  an  honest,  peaceaVle, 
quiet,  harmless,  fellow,  had  a  beastly  habit  of  getting  drunk 
whenever  a  fit  opportunity  presented  itself;  and,  unfortu- 
nately, because  "  where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way,"  the 
opportunities  were  both  fit  and  frequent. 

Jim  owned  a  little  farm  in  the  country,  which,  by  his  own 
industry  and  economy,  he  had  almost  paid  for.  Mrs.  Scrog- 
gins  was  a  "  real  worker,"  and,  no  doubt,  did  her  full  part 
in  buying  the  homestead.  She  was  endowed  with  a  great 
deal  of  energy  and  good  judgment,  and  people  were  so  ma- 
licious as  to  say  that  she  was  the  smartest  man  of  the  twain. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  Mrs  Scroggins  was  an  industrious  woman, 
nd  took  a  great  deal  of  pride  in  the  little  place,  which  had 
Been  bought  by  their  united  industry  and  economy,  and  tho 
thought  of  having  it  wrested  from  them  by  a  cold-hearted 
creditor  was  in  the  highest  degree  disagreeable ;  but  to  such 
a  calamity  her  husband's  infirmity,  as  the  good  minister  of 
the  village  called  it,  seemed  to  point. 

The  habit  grew  upon  him,  as  it  almost  always  does  upon 
those  who  once  get  into  the  way  of  imbibing  too  freely. 

(3D 


32  THE   TWO   DAGUERREOTYPES. 

The  miseries  of  the  drunkard's  wife  had  been  too  often  pre- 
sented to  the  good  woman's  understanding  to  be  regarded 
as  simply  creations  of  the  imagination,  and  she  looked  for- 
ward with  alarm  to  the  prospect  of  enduring  them  and  losing 
the  little  place. 

But  what  could  be  done  ?  She  had  exhausted  all  her  elo- 
quence upon  the  infatuated  man,  without  producing  any 
thing  more  than  a  temporary  effect.  She  pointed  out  to 
him,  kindly,  the  inevitable  consequences  of  his  indulgence, 
and  Jim  promised  to  amend ;  but  —  alas,  for  the  vanity  of 
human  expectations  !  —  he  got  tipsy  the  very  next  day. 

Then  she  appealed  to  his  love  of  money  —  to  his  sense  of 
satisfaction  in  being  the  owner  of  a  cottage  and  ten  acres  of 
land.  She  assured  him  that  he  would  certainly  lose  it  all, 
and  warming  up  with  the  importance  of  the  subject,  declared 
that  she  would  not  slave  herself  any  longer  to  buy  the  place, 
and  then  have  it  taken  from  them  to  pay  a  rum  bill. 

Jim  listened  patiently  and  without  speaking  a  word  to  the 
indignant  dame's  eloquence,  and,  as  usual,  promised  to  do 
better ;  but,  also,  as  usual,  he  came  into  the  house  the  next 
day  tight  as  a  fiddlestring. 

Mrs.  Scroggins  was  in  despair ;  "  what  to  do  she  didn't 
know,"  as  she  expressed  it  to  Parson  Allwise,  who  was  a 
sincere  sympathizer  with  her  in  her  distress.  She  had  en- 
treated, she  had  scolded,  she  had  threatened,  and  all  to  no 
purpose.  "  What  could  a  body  do  ?  " 

Parson  Allwise  himself,  though  he  made  it  a  point  never 
to  interfere  in  the  domestic  affairs  of  his  parishioners,  was 
at  last  moved  to  try  his  powers  of  persuasion  on  the  poor 
fellow.  But  Jim,  unfortunately  for  the  success  of  the  ap-. 
peal,  had  but  a  poor  opinion  of  ministers  in  general,  and  of 


THE    TWO    DAGUERREOTYPES.  33 

Parson  Allwise  in  particular,  and  as  good  as  told  the  "worthy 
pastor  that  he  had  better  mind  his  own  business. 

Mrs.  Scroggins  was  shocked  at  the  boldness  of  her  spouse 
in  answering  a  minister  of  the  gospel  in  such  a  pointed  man- 
ner, and  was  led  to  believe  that  the  case  was  now  hopeless, 
indeed. 

But  woman's  wits  are  equal  to  almost  any  emergency; 
and,  though  she  had  professedly  given  Jim  over  to  the  ten- 
der mercies  of  the  devil,  she  could  not  help  thinking  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  if  he  could  only,  be  saved  from  himself. 

One  day  circumstances  seemed  to  conspire  in  favor  of  an 
experiment,  which  had  suggested  itself  to  her  fertile  brain, 
and  she  immediately  carried  it  into  effect  with  the  most  hap- 
py success,  as  the  sequel  will  show. 


CHAPTER    II. 

JIM  had  been  cleaning  out  the  pig  pen,  and  as  the  opera- 
tion was  a  rather  disagreeable  one,  he  had  fortified  his  olfac- 
tories by  drinking  an  inordinate  quantity  of  vile  New  Eng- 
land rum. 

The  filthy  stuff  happily  did  not  take  effect  on  his  brains 
till  the  job  was  done.  The  pig  pen  was  cleaned  out,  but  Jim 
was  in  a  condition  which  better  fitted  him  to  occupy  it,  than 
the  neat,  white-floored  kitchen  of  his  cottage.  But  Jim  did 
not  realize  this  unpleasant  truth,  and  leaving  his  shovel  and 
hoe  in  the  sty,  staggered  into  the  house. 

"  He  was  a  sight  to  behold,"  as  Mrs.  Scroggins  told  the 
minister.  The  job  he  had  just  completed  was  eminently  a 
nasty  one,  and  Jim,  as  we  have  before  remarked,  being  a 


34     *  THE   TWO   DAGTJERKEOTYPES. 

prudent  man,  had  prepared  himself  to  perform  it,  without 
any  detriment  to  tKe  neat  garments  he  ordinarily  wore. 

He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  ragged  clothes,  and  on  his 
head  rested  a  "  shocking  bad  hat,"  with  the  crown  stove  in, 
and  the  hrim  half  torn  off.  As  the  liquor  began  to  fuddle 
him,  he  had  moved  it  over  from  its  perpendicular  position, 
so  that  it  rested  jantily  on  one  side  of  his  head. 

Jim  settled  himself  heavily  in  a  chair  by  the  cooking  stove, 
looked  silly,  and  seemed  disposed  to  address  himself  to  slum- 
ber, his  usual  resort  when  inebriated. 

Mrs.  Scroggins  was  mad  at  first ;  for  it  was  only  the  day 
before  that  Jim,  for  the  hundred  and  first  time,  had  promised 
never  to  drink  another  drop,  not  even  in  case  of  sickness. 

But  what  was  the  use  of  being  mad  with  such  a  poor, 
silly,  imbecile  being  as  he  was  at  that  moment  ?  He  was  not 
in  a  condition  to  appreciate  a  regular  matrimonial  "blow 
up,"  and  she  wisely  resolved  to  reserve  the  vials  of  her  wrath 
to  be  poured  out  at  a  more  convenient  season. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  thought  of  losing  the  little  place, 
of  penury,  degradation,  misery,  and  the  poorhouse.  A  lucky 
thought  rose,  like  the  phoenix  from  the  flames,  out  of  the 
contemplation  of  the  dark  picture ;  and  after  a  few  minutes 
deliberation,  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and  cloak,  and  hurried 
over  to  the  village,  not  half  a  mile  distant. 

During  the  previous  week,  a  young  daguerreotypist,  with 
a  portable  saloon  —  a  kind  of  overgrown  omnibus  —  had 
been  delighting  the  villagers  by  "giving  them  the  semblance 
of  their  faces  at  prices  varying  from  nine  shillings  to  three 
dollars  a  head,  depending  upon  the  value  of  the  case. 

All  the  people  in  town  had  been  daguerreotyped,  and  the 
omnibus  man  was  the  most  popular  person  in  the  village. 


THE    TWO    DAGUEKBEOTYPES.  35 

All  the  dames  and  maidens  were  taken,  and  every  Jonathan 
and  Jehiel  who  could  boast  of  a  Susan,  a  Ruth,  or  a  Sally, 
was  taken,  with  her  by  his  side  in  the  picture,  his  arm 
thrown  lovingly  round  her  neck,  and  both  looking  unutter- 
ably affectionate.  j  „  . 

But  Mrs.  Scroggins  was  not  sentimental ;  she  had  gotten 
over  all  that  long  before  Jim  took  to  drinking.  She  pro- 
posed to  put  the  skill  of  the  daguerreotypist  to  a  more  prac- 
tical use  than  that  of  propitiating  a  lover. 

She  entered  the  saloon,  and  though  her  heart  did  beat 
a  little  at  the  degradation  of  exposing  her  domestic  matters 
to  an  entire  stranger,  she  demeaned  herself  with  all  the  firm- 
ness necessary  for  the  trying  occasion. 

Fortunately  for  her,  all  the  people  in  town  "  had  been 
taken,"  and  it  was  a  dry  time  with  the  artist.  In  as  few 
words  as  possible,  she  stated  the  case  to  him,  and  the  young 
man  readily  promised  his  cooperation. 

Taking  his  apparatus  under  his  arm,  he  accompanied  Mrs. 
Scroggins  to  the  cottage*  where  Jim  was  sleeping  off  the 
effects  of  the  villanous  "  New  England." 

The  inebriate  sat  in  precisely  the  same  position  in  which 
his  wife  had  left  him.  He  was  asleep  in  a  high  back  chair, 
which  kept  his  head  up  so  that  every  thing  was  favorable  for 
the  sitting. 

In  a  trice  Jim  Scroggins,  old  hat,  ragged  clothes,  long 
beard,  dozy,  drunken  expression  and  all,  were  transferred  to 
the  plate. 

But  the  picture  did  not  suit  the  artist ;  he  thought  one 
taken  when  the  sitter  was  awake  would  be  a  more  correct 
representation.  Mrs.  Scroggins  thought  so  too,  and  after 
the  daguerreotypist  had  put  in  a  new  plate,  she  waked 
him  up. 


36 

"  What  d'ye  want  ?  "  growbd  Jim. 

" Wake  up ! "  and  the  lady  gave  him  a  smart  pi^.h, 
which  opened  his  eyes,  thus  completing  the  expression  of 
the  drunkard. 

The  artist  was  prompt,  and  in  an  instant  the  second  edi- 
tion of  Jim  Scroggins  was  on  the  plate. 

The  original,  not  heing  required  for  further  use,  was  suf- 
fered to  sink  away  and  complete  his  nap. 

The  pictures  were  put  in  a  frame,  and  Mrs.  Scroggins 
produced  her  money. 

"  Nothing,  ma'am  ;  I  shall  not  charge  you  any  thing." 
"  But,  sir,  I  am  able  to  pay." 

The  artist  shook  his  head,  and  resolutely  refused  to  touch 
her  money. 

Of  course  Mrs.  Scroggins  was  grateful,  and  gave  the  young 
artist  an  invitation  to  take  tea  with  her,  which  he  accepted. 
In  the  course  of  the  meal  — •  the  table  being  laid  in  the  little 
front  room  —  the  daguerreotypist  told  the  story  of  his  own 
life ;  how  he  had  been  brought  up  in  the  midst  of  intem- 
perance, and  knew  all  about  it.  His  father  had  died  a 
drunkard,  leaving  his  mother  penniless,  and  he  supported 
her  by  the  profits  of  his  portable  saloon.  Mrs.  Scroggins, 
of  course,  sympathized  with  the  young  man,  and  readily  un- 
derstood why  he  would  not  take  pay  for  the  pictures. 

But  what  was  better  than  all,  the  young  artist  took  quite 
a  fancy  to  Jim's  only  daughter,  a  pretty  little  girl  of  eigh- 
teen, and  after  tea  insisted  upon  taking  her  daguerreotype. 
And  the  sly  rogue  pretended  that  the  first  was  not  a  good 
one,  and  took  another,  which  he  carried  away  with  him, 
professedly  for  a  show  specimen,  though,  to  my  certain 
knowledge,  he  never  exhibited  it. 


THE   TWO   DAGUERREOTYPES.  37 

The  tea  things  were  cleared  away,  and  still  the  young  gen- 
tleman lingered,  and  talked  a  great  deal  with  the  pretty 
little  Susan.  But  when  he  did  go,  the  poor  girl's  heart  fol- 
lowed him,  and  half  the  night  she  lay  awake  to  think  of 
him. 

CHAPTER    III. 

JIM  SCROGGINS  recovered  from  his  debauch  ;  but  the  first 
thing  he  saw  when  he  came  into  the  kitchen,  in  the  morning, 
was  the  case  containing  the  two  daguerreotypes,  which  lay 
open  on  the  table. 

He  picked  it  up,  and  started  back  in  confusion,  when  he 
recognized  his  own  distorted  features  in  one  of  the  pictures. 

He  examined  the  other.  It  was  the  counterpart  of  the 
first,  with  the  eyes  open,  and  looking  ten  times  more  hideous 
than  the  sleeping  picture. 

"  Good  gracious  ! "  exclaimed  he ;  "  did  I  ever  look  so 
infarnal  homely  as  that  ?  "  and  he  proceeded  to  scrutinize  the 
pictures  a  second  time. 

"  Hang  me  !  if  I  thought  I  ever  looked  so  cussed  mean  as 
that,  I'd  go  down  and  jump  into  the  river. 

'"  I've  seen  men  though,  that  looked  just  like  that  'ere," 
continued  he ;  "  but  thorn  was  drunkards.  Now,  I  an't  a 
drunkard,  though  I  sometimes  git  a  little  sizzled.  I  never 
lit  my  pipe  at  the  pump,  though.  Howsomever,  them  was 
took  for  me,  though  when  or  where  I've  no  kind  o'  notion. 
There's  the  old  hat,  and  that's  the  old  coat  —  no  mistake." 

The  footsteps  of  his  wife  caused  him  to  drop  the  pictures, 
and  he  hastened  out  of  the  house  to  avoid  the  tempest  which 
he  thought  his  wickedness  would  call  down  upon  his  head. 
4 


38  THE    TWO    DAGTJERKEOTYPES. 

It  is  a  notable  fact  that  lie  omitted  his  morning  dram  on 
this  occttSion,  and  his  wife  took  courage.  Like  a  prudent 
woman,  as  she  was,  she  did  not  say  a  word  about  the  occur- 
rences of  yesterday,  and  permitted  him  to  eat  his  breakfast 
in  peace. 

He  got  through  that  day  without  drinking  a  drop ;  but  on 
the  following  day  the  old  appetite  clamored  for  the  usual 
dram,  and  in  the  afternoon,  while  his  wife  was  in  the  sitting 
room,  he  went  to  the  closet  where  he  kept  the  bottle. 

But  the  first  thing  that  met  his  gaze  was  the  two  daguer- 
reotypes resting  against  the  black  bottle.  There  was  Jim 
Scroggins  drunk  asleep,  and  Jim  Scroggins  drunk  awake. 

"  Them  cussed  dogerytypes  !  "  muttered  he,  starting  back 
in  confusion  at  the  miserable-looking  object  they  so  faithfully 
shadowed  to  him. 

Jim  stopped  to  think.  He  fully  resolved  never  again  to 
be  the  loathsome  being  they  represented  him  to  be.  Taking 
the  black  bottle,  he  went  to  the  door  with  it,  and  with  right 
good  will  hurled  it  on  the  door  stone,  where  it  was  smashed 
into  a  thousand  fragments,  and  the  delectable  stuff  irretriev- 
ably lost. 

"  Halloo  !  what  are  you  about  ?  "  said  a  young  man,  en- 
tering the  yard. 

"  Smashing  my  rum  bottle,"  replied  Jim  with  admirable 
coolness. 

"  Bravo  !  I  commend  your  resolution,"  replied  the  young 
man. 

**  You  are  the  dogerytype  man,  an't  you  ?  "  said  Jim. 

"  I  am." 

"  Walk  in,  if  you  please ;  "  and  Jim  ushered  Mr.  Shadow 
jito  the  sitting  room,  where  Lia  wife  and  daughter  were,, 


,  THE    TWO    DAGT7EBEEOTYPES.  39 

"  Wife,"  said  he,  "  you  had  them  picters  taken  ?  " 

"  I  did,  James." 

"  I've  broke  the  bottle  ;  and  as  to  looking  like  them  cre- 
turs,  I  never  will  again." 

"  Thank  God,  James  ;  I  hope  you  never  will." 

"  Here  is  the  pledge,"  said  Mr.  Shadow,  who  was  a  tem- 
perance man  in  theory  as  well  as  practice. 

"  I'll  sign  it,  by  mighty  !  "  and  Jim  did  sign  it. 

"  Now,  wife,  will  you  rub  them  things  out  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  James  ;  "  and  Mrs.  Scroggins  went  for  the 
pictures. 

"  And  now,  Mr.  Scroggins,  if  you  will  walk  over  to  my 
saloon,  I  shall  be  happy  to  take  the  real  man  as  God  made 
him." 

"  I'll  do  it ;  and,  Betsey,  you  shall  come,  too  ;  and  Susey." 

Susey  went  with  her  father  and  mother,  though  her  pic- 
ture had  been  taken.  On  the  way  Mr.  Shadow  walked  by 
her  side,  and  said  a  great  many  silly  things,  with  which  I 
will  not  trouble  the  reader. 

The  daguerreotypes  were  taken,  and  Jim  was  surprised  at 
the  difference  between  the  picture  of  a  drunken  man  and 
that  of  a  sober  man. 

He  drank  no  more  liquor ;  and  though  this  incident  hap- 
pened three  years  ago,  he  is  still  a  sober  and  reputable  man 
in  the  village.  The  little  place  is  all  paid  for,  and  Mrs. 
Scroggins  is  superlatively  happy. 

Susan,  in  less  than  a  year,  became  the  wife  of  Mr.  Shadow, 
who,  notwithstanding  his  name,  is  a  man  of  substance,  and 
loves  his  wife  all  the  more  because  he  was  instrumental  in 
saving  her  from  the  degradation  of  being  a  drunkard's 
daughter. 


SIX  HUNDRED  A  YEAR. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  WELL,  Dixon,  what  is  it  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Phogie  of  his 
assistant  bookkeeper,  who  had  been  patiently  waiting  for 
half  an  hour  in  the  private  counting  room  of  the  merchant 
for  an  opportunity  to  speak  with  his  employer. 

"  My  second  year  in  your  service  will  begin  to-morrow, 
sir ;  and  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  request  your  attention 
to  a  matter  which,  though  of  little  consequence  to  you,  per- 
haps, is  of  considerable  moment  to  me." 

The  young  man  paused  as  if  to  note  the  effect  of  his 
words  upon  his  employer. 

"  Indeed !  "  ejaculated  the  merchant,  not  half  liking  the 
cool  and  dignified  way  the  young  gentleman  had  of  intro- 
ducing himself. 

To  his  mind  there  was  a  lack  of  that  cringing,  subservient 
tone  and  manner  which  his  old-fashioned  notions  had  taught 
him  to  believe  was  a  dangerous  deficiency  in  a  clerk. 

"  I  refer  to  my  salary,  sir." 

"Well?" 

There  was  a  gathering  frown  upon  the  brow  of  the  merchant. 

"  I  have  endeavored  to  serve  you  faithfully,"  continued 
the  clerk,  rather  discouraged  by  the  coldness  with  which  he 
was  received. 

(40) 


SIX    HTJNDBED   A    TEAK.  41 

There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Mr.  Phogie's  philosophy 
did  not  permit  him  to  speak ;  and  the  young  man  was  too 
much  embarrassed  to  proceed  with  his  application. 

"  My  salary  for  the  past  year  has  been  five  hundred  dol- 
lars," stammered  Dixon,  when  he  found  his  employer  was 
bent  on  holding  his  peace. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Mr.  Phogie,  who  still  provokingly  refused 
to  take  a  hint. 

"The  object  of  my  present  visit  is  respectfully  to  request 
you  to  raise  it  to  six  hundred,"  continued  Dixon,  more 
boldly,  as  he  began  to  appreciate  the  humor  of  his  em- 
ployer. 

Mr.  Phogie  stared,  aghast  with  astonishment  and  horror, 
at  the  supplicant.  Cruikshank  or  Johnston  would  have  ac- 
counted the  scene  quite  equal  to  that  in  the  workhouse,  where 
Oliver  Twist,  in  a  less  important  matter,  had  the  unheard-of 
presumption  and  impudence  to  "  ask  for  more." 

Dixon  lost  all  hope. 

"  I  trust,  sir,  I  am  not  unreasonable,"  said  he,  excusing 
his  boldness. 

"  Forty  years  ago,  Dixon,  when  I  was  of  your  age,"  began 
Mr.  Phogie,  with  solemn  deliberateness,  "  I  should  have 
been  glad  to  have  received  one  half  of  your  present  salary." 

The  merchant  looked  complacently  at  the  clerk,  to  note  the 
effect  of  this  astounding  declaration. 

Dixon  ventured  to  suggest  that  the  times  had  changed. 

Mr.  Phogie  admitted  it,  but  was  quite  sure  the  change 
had  been  for  the  worse. 

"  That  is  a  matter  of  opinion,  sir." 

"  Humph  ! " 

*'  It  costs  much  more  to  live  now  than  it  did  then." 
4* 


42  SIX    HUNDEEU    A    TEAK. 

"  Young  men  didn't  drive  fast  horses  then,  nor  go  to  the 
opera,  nor  board  at  fashionable  hotels,"  sneered  Mr.  Phogie. 

"  I  am  guilty  of  none  of  these  follies,  sir,"  replied  Dixon, 
a  little  indignant  at  the  coarseness  of  the  implication. 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  five  hundred  dollars  a  year  is  a  good 
salary  for  a  prudent,  careful  young  man." 

"  For  one  who  can  do  no  better  it  is  very  well." 

"  Clerks  are  vain  nowadays,  and  over-estimate  them- 
selves," said  Mr.  Phogie,  rebuking  the  complacence  of  his 
servant. 

"  I  do  not  ask  an  increase  of  salary,  sir,  because  I  cannot 
live  on  five  hundred  dollars,  but  because  I  wish  to  advance 
myself,  and,  if  you  will  pardon  my  vanity,  because  I  think 
my  services  are  worth  more." 

"  Very  well,  sir  ;  when  young  men  get  above  their  busi- 
ness, there  is  no  knowing  where  they  will  stop.  I  cannot 
accede  to  your  demand  ;  "  and  Mr.  Phogie,  to  show  his  indif- 
ference, busied  himself  in  arranging  some  papers  on  the  desk 
before  him. 

"  Then,  sir,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  give  you  notice  of  my 
intention  to  leave  your  service,"  returned  Dixon,  evidently 
relieved  by  the  fact  that  the  interview  was  concluded,  even 
»  in  this  unsatisfactory  manner. 

Mr.  Phogie  paused  in  his  occupation,  and  looked  with 
surprise  upon  the  clerk.  It  was  doubtful  whether  Dixon 
meant  so. 

**  Got  another  situation  ?  "  asked  he. 

1  No,  sir." 

"  Nothing  in  view  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  sir.  Of  course  I  could  not  make  an  arrange- 
ment till  I  had  consulted  you." 


SIX    HUNDRED   A    YEAB.  43 

Mr.  Phogie  was  not  pleased  with  the  result  of  the  inter- 
view. Dixon  was  an  honest,  faithful,  and  devoted  clerk,  and 
the  idea  of  parting  with  him  was  not  agreeable.  But  to 
retract  what  he  had  hastily  said  would  be  an  indication  of 
weakness  ;  besides,  he  knew  that  any  quantity  of  clerks 
could  be  obtained  for  four,  or  even  three  hundred  dollars  a 
year ;  and  he  reasoned  with  himself  that  he  should  be  a  fool 
to  pay  Dixon  six  when  he  could  get  one  for  three. 

Accordingly  Dixon  gave  formal  notice  of  intention  to 
"  quit ;  "  but,  having  already  earned  a  reputation  for  integ- 
rity and  fidelity,  he  could  easily  obtain  a  situation  at  the 
salary  he  had  demanded  of  Mr.  Phogie. 


CHAPTER    II. 
/  -* 

"  GOOD  morning,  Mr.  Phogie,"  said  Mr.  Wyman,  a  lib- 
eral-minded merchant,  as  he  entered  the  counting  room  of 
the  former. 

"  Good  morning,  sir.     Any  thing  new  stirring  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  called  to  see  you  about  a  young  man  who  haa 
been  in  your  employ ;  I  mean  Dixon." 

Phogie  was  all  attention. 

"  I  want  a  bookkeeper,  and  he  has  applied  for  the  situa- 
tion. How  is  he  ?  "  . 

Phogie  did  not  very  well  like  to  say  he  was  a  competent 
ma'n,  honest,  faithful,  and  zealous  ;  he  did  not  dare  say  he 
was  any  thing  else  •  so  he  was  compelled  to  compromise  the 
matter  for  the  moment  by  saying  nothing. 

"  I  was  very  much  surprised  to  hear  from  him  that  he  had 
Isft  your  service.  Any  thing  unpleasant?  " 


44  SIX  HTmDBED  A  TEAK. 

«'  NO." 

"Blot  the  books?" 

«  No." 

"  Inaccurate  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Off  too  much  ?  " 

"  No  ;  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  But  he  was  always  considered  one  of  the  most  promising 
young  men  on  the  street." 

"Yes." 

Wyman  was  perplexed  by  the  taciturnity  of  the  other. 

"  I  don't  ask  from  idle  curiosity ;  I  want  a  bookkeeptr." 

Phogie  was  dumb. 

"  Has  the  young  man  any  fault  ?  "  and  there  were  visible 
evidences  of  impatience  in  the  tones  and  manner  of  the 
matter-of-fact  merchant. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of." 

"  O,  you  didn't  want  him  ?  " 

"  No  —  that  is  —  yes  —  but " 

"  Exactly  so ! "  exclaimed  Wyman,  laughing. 

Phogie  laughed  too  ;  he  could  not  help  laughing  when  he 
saw  what  a  figure  he  was  making  ;  besides,  a  laugh  is  seme- 
times  a  great  relief  to  a  man  in  a  quandary. 

"  If  you  must  know,  Wyman,  I'll  tell  you.  I  gave  him 
five  hundred  for  the  last  year  ;  he  wants  six  for  the  next.  I 
won't  give  it." 

"  No  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  the  whole  story." 

"  Wait  a  minute  till  I  have  secured  him,  and  then  I  will 
talk  with  you  ;  "  and  Wyman  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  Give  him  six  hundred  ? "  asked   Phogie,   not  a  little 


SIX   HT7NDBED  A  TEAS.  45 

astonished  to  find  his  neighbor  so  eager  to  complete  the 
engagement. 

"  Yes  ;  seven  if  he  demands  it." 

"  I  can  send  you  half  a  dozen  in  an  hour  who  will  engage 
for  three." 

"  Will  you  give  bonds  for  their  integrity  and  fidelity  ?  " 
asked  Wyman,  with  a  sneer. 

"Pooh!" 

"  Pooh  ?  The  fact  is,  I  have  suffered  enough  from  cheap 
clerks.  Assure  me  that  a  young  man  is  honest  and  true  to  my 
interest,  and  I  never  will  let  him  leave  me  on  account  of  any 
reasonable  difference  about  salary.  All  that  Solomon  said 
about  a  virtuous  woman  I  believe  in  with  regard  to  an  hon- 
est and  faithful  clerk." 

"  I  can't  afford  to  pay  these  big  salaries ;  and  a  young 
man  gets  above  his  business  when  you  pay  him  too  much." 

"  Nonsense  !  He  will  respect  himself,  which  every  man 
must  do  in  order  to  keep  himself  honest." 

"  You  are  a  transcendentalist." 

"  I'm  common  sense.  You  say  you  cannot  afford  to  pay 
high  salaries.  Can  you  afford  to  have  a  semiannual  deficit 
in  your  cash  account  of  three  hundred  dollars,  botched  up 
with  false  entries,  lying  balances,  and  the  like  ?  " 

Mr.  Phogie  had  never  been  troubled  in  this  way,  and 
there  was  no  probability  that  he  ever  should  be ;  he  looked 
out  for  his  business  himself,  and  he  should  like  to  see  the 
clerk  that  could  "  bamboozle  "  him. 

Mr.  Wyman  thought  otherwise,  and  took  his  leave,  won- 
dering at  the  stupidity  of  his  friend.  It  occurred  to  him,  as 
he  left  the  counting  room,  that  it  was  not  so  very  strange, 


46  SIX   JITJNDBED    A   YEAH. 

after  all,  that  clerks  on  three  hundred  a  year  can  drive  2 :  40 
horses  and  go  to  the  opera  three  nights  in  a  week  ;  not  very 
strange,  either,  that  petty  defalcations  were  discovered  occa- 
sionally, and  that  young  men  on  small  salaries  got  ahead 
amazingly  fast. 


CHAPTER    III. 

•  .:..*.:•  '--^llk  • 

WTMAK  engaged  Dixon,  and  Phogie  procured  the  services 
of  an  ill-looking  fellow  for  three  hundred  dollars.  The  next 
time  he  saw  Wyman,  he  indulged  in  a  little  innocent  raillery 
over  the  fact  that  he  paid  his  new  clerk  but  just  half  the 
salary  Dixon  received ;  and  Phogie  thought  he  was  even  a 
better  bookkeeper  than  Dixon,  wrote  a  plainer  hand,  and 
could  run  up  a  column  of  figures  rather  quicker.  As  to  the 
new  clerk's  honesty,  he  had  a  bundle  of  testimonials  as  big 
as  the  invoice  book  ;  and  his  maternal  uncle  was  president 
of  the  Soap  and  Candle  Makers'  Bank.  Of  course  he  was 
honest ! 

Things  went  on  swimmingly  for  six  months.  The  new 
assistant  was  a  jewel ;  and  when  Mr.  Quilldriver,  the  head 
bookkeeper,  was  taken  down  with  rheumatism,  which  proved 
to  be  chronic,  Mr.  Phogie  had  so  much  confidence  in  this 
notable  nephew  of  a  notable  uncle  that  he  gave  him  the 
entire  charge  of  the  books,  and,  in  the  liberality  of  his  big 
heart,  advanced  his  salary  voluntarily  to  four  hundred  dollars 
a  year. 

On  the  first  of  January,  however,  when  Mr.  Phogie  called 
for  the  balance  sheet,  it  was  not  ready.  The  trial  balance 


SIX    HUNDEED    A    TEAK.  47 

didn't  come  out  right,  and  the  profit  and  loss  account  looked 
"  thundering  strange,"  as  Mr.  Phogie  classically  expressed  it. 
Three  days  were  hopelessly  used  up  in  "  taking  stock ;  "  but 
the  thing  couldn't  be  figured  out. 

Mr.  Phogie  began  to  be  alarmed.  The  general  —  a  noted 
expert  in  unsnarling  complicated  and  difficult  accounts  — 
was  called  in  to  examine  into  affairs  ;  but  no  sooner  did  the 
smart  nephew  of  the  president  of  the  Soap  and  Candle 
Makers'  Bank  see'  the  well-known  gray  locks  of  the  expert 
bent  over  the  obstinate  folios  than  he  stepped  out  to  lunch, 
and,  by  some  singular  oversight,  forgot  to  return. 

The  upshot  of  the  whole  matter  was,  that  the  general  dis- 
covered an  "  absquatulation  "  of  some  fifteen  hundred  dol- 
lars — just  enough  to  keep  the  dapper  little  bookkeeper  in 
opera  tickets  and  2  :  40's  during  the  past  season. 

Of  course  the  thing  went  up  and  down  the  street ;  and 
the  little  ragged  news  boys  in  State  Street  bellowed  it  at  the 
top  of  their  lungs  into  the  ears  of  the  passer  by. 

"  Why,  Phogie,  how's  this  ?  "  said  Mr.  Wyman,  meeting 
the  supporter  of  the  cheap  clerk  system. 

Mr.  Phogie  used  a  very  hard  word,  which  only  the  minis- 
ters are  permitted  to  use  in  stirring  sermons. 

"  Pay  'em  well,  Phogie,  and  they  won't  steal ;  and  when 
you  get  a  faithful  servant,  don't  part  with  him." 

Phogie  scowled  and  edged  off. 

"  By^the  way,  Dixon  has  brought  every  thing  out  as  square 
as  a  brick.  Trial  balance,  balance  sheet,  every  thing  foots 
up  without  the  variation  of  a  penny,"  continued  Wyman, 
maliciously,  as  Phogie  increased  his  speed. 

Poor  penny-wise,  pound-foolish  merchant !  He  learned 
better  after  that. 


48  SIX   HUNDRED   A  TEAK. 

For  the  satisfaction  of  the  reader,  I  may  as  well  add,  thai 
Dixon  got  a  thousand  for  his  next  year's  service,  and  that 
he  is  now  engaged  to  his  employer's  pretty  daughter,  with 
the*  prospect  of  immediately  becoming  a  partner  in  the 
concern. 


THE  NEW  MINISTER; 

OB,  , 

"CHARITY   BEGINS   AT   HOME." 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  IT  is  abominable  hypocrisy  for  you  to  talk  so,  Susan ; 
you  don't  care  any  more  about  the  missionaries  than  you  do 
about  the  fifth  wheel  of  a  coach,"  exclaimed  Louise  Percy, 
the  village  schoolmistress,  to  her  friend,  Susan  Maylie,  at 
whose  father's  house  she  boarded. 

"  Why,  Louise,  how  rude  you  are  !  You  wouldn't  like  it 
if  I  should  talk  so  about  you,"  replied  Susan,  an  angry  flush, 
gathering  upon  her  cheek. 

"  Perhaps  I  shouldn't ;  but  if  it  were  true,  I  don't  know 
that  I  could  blame  you  for  it." 

"  It  is  not  true,  Louise." 

"  Why,  it  is  only  two  months  since  you  refused  to  put 
any  thing  into  the  contribution  box  for  the  missions.  You 
said  you  thought  the  missionaries  were  a  set  of  lazy  vaga- 
bonds, who  had  a  good  deal  rather  preach  than  work  for  a 
living.  Now,  since  the  new  minister  has  come,  all  of  a  sud- 
den you  are  a  strenuous  friend  of  missions  and  missionaries." 

"  Can't  a  body  change  her  opinions,  when  they  are  found 
to  be  wrong  ?  "  replied  Susan,  petulantly. 

"  Certainly  you  can  ;  but  is  your  opinion  really  changed  ?  *' 
5  f«> 


50  THE    NEW    MINISTEB. 

"  How  strange  you  talk,  Louise  !  " 

"  May  be  I  do  ;  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction." 

"  You  must  confess  that  our  new  minister's  eloquence  has 
been  quite  enough  to  convince  any  reasonable  person  that 
the  propagation  of  the  gospel  among  the  heathen  is  a  holy 
and  beautiful  work." 

"  Undoubtedly,  it  is  a  good  work  ;  and  if  you  really  feel 
called  upon  to  labor  so  earnestly  in  the  cause,  I  am  sure  I 
should  be  the  last  one  to  reprove  you  for  it." 

"  You  don't  believe  I  am  sincere,  then  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  very  fond  of  the  new  minister.  If  an 
old  man,  with  a  Avife  and  half  a  dozen  children,  had  preached 
those  missionary  sermons,  I  hardly  believe  you  would  have 
felt  so  much  interest  in  the  work." 

"Why,  Louise,  you  astonish  me-!  I  really  believe  you 
hate  the  missionaries." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  have  the  highest  respect  for  them.  I 
have  always  contributed  my  mite  to  sustain  them.  I  think 
I  was  quite  as  strongly  attached  to  the  cause  before  this 
young  and  handsome  Mr.  Rogers  made  his  appearance  among 
us  as  I  am  now ;  "  and  Louise  laughed  merrily. 

"He  is  handsome,  isn't  he?"  said  Susan,  catching  the 
playful  spirit  of  her  companion  and  confidant. 

"I  grant  that  with  the  greatest  pleasure  ;  but  if  you  ex- 
pect to  catch  him,  you  had  better  moderate  your  missionary 
ardor,  and  act  yourself." 

"  Nay,  Louise,  I  really  feel  an  interest  in  the  cause  ;  "  and 
Susan  looked  as  sober  as  though  she  had  been  a  mission- 
ary herself,  just  on  the  point  of  starting  for  the  interior  of 
Africa. 

Louise  laughed  merrily  again,  as  she  looked  duu'u^olty 
into  the  face  of  her  friend. 


THE    NEW    MIXISTEK.  51 

A  knock  at  the  door  started  them  from  the  revery  into 
which  both  had  fallen. 

"  Mr.  Rogers,  as  I  live  ! "  exclaimed  Louise,  catching  a 
glance  at  the  new  minister  as  he  stood  on  the  door  stone. 

"  Pray,  don't  be  rude,  Louise,"  said  Susan,  as  she  ad- 
justed her  dress  before  the  glass. 

"Be  rude !  of  course  not ;  but  I  shall  say  just  what  I 
think." 

"  Don't,  Louise.     Be  a  friend  of  missions,  for  my  sake." 

Susan  opened  the  door,  and  Mr.  Rogers  entered  the  house. 

"  I  have  called,  Miss  Maylie,  to  propose  a  plan  for  a  tea 
party  in  aid  of  the  missions,"  said  he,  after  the  common 
place  introductories  had  been  disposed  of.  "  I  look  to  you, 
who  have  been  first  and  foremost  in  this  good  cause,  for 
sympathy  and  cooperation." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad,  indeed,  to  do  all  I  can  to  forward 
the  good  work,"  said  Susan,  demurely,  "  and  so  will  Miss 
Percy." 

"  You  must  excuse  me  ;  my  time  is  so  much  occupied  that 
I  do  not  think  I  shall  be  able  to  render  any  essential  aid," 
interposed  Louise,  scarcely  able  to  restrain  a  laugh  at  the 
prompt  tender  Susan  had  made  pf  her  services. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  not  interested  in  the  missions,"  sug- 
gested Mr.  Rogers. 

"  To  some  extent,  I  am,  sir." 

"  I  trust,  then,  we  shall  be  able  to  enlist  your  sympathies. 
Certainly  the  heathen,  perishing  in  their  sins,  demand  a 
noble  effort  on  the  part  of  the  Christian  world." 

"  I  do  not  question  the  lofty  character  of  the  missionary 
enterprise,  but  I  do  think  charity  ought  to  begin  at  home." 

"  Why,  Louise,  how  strange  you  talk !  "  exclaimed  Susan. 


52  THE    NEW   MINISTEK. 

"  True,  Miss  Percy,  but  it  ought  not  to  end  there.  I  see 
you  favor  the  home  missions." 

"  I  do.  I  favor  a  mission  nearer  home  than  any  society 
has  been  formed  to  advance,  in  our  village  at  least  —  the 
mission  to  the  poor  and  destitute." 

"  The  gospel  is  preached  for  all,"  said  the  minister. 

"  For  all,  but  not  to  all.  There  is  poor  Mrs.  "Weston, 
who  cannot  afford  to  buy  clothes  to  send  her  children  to 
meeting." 

"  Indeed  !  "  ejaculated  the  minister. 

"  Her  husband  is  a  poor,  miserable  drunkard,"  added  Su- 
san. "  You  don't  think  her  a  worthier  object  of  charity  than 
the  poor,  suffering,  dying  heathen,  who  are  perishing  in  their 
ignorance  and  sin  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  do  !  "  returned  Louise. 

"  Her  case  ought  to  be  attended  to  immediately,"  said 
Mr.  Rogers. 

"  She  ought  to  go  to  the  poorhouse  ;  the  overseers  offered 
to  take  her,"  continued  Susan. 

"  The  poorhouse !  Mrs.  Weston  has  seen  better  days, 
and,  I  doubt  not,  would  rather  die  than  be  subjected  to  such 
a  bitter  humiliation."  , 

"  Her  own  fault,  then  ;  if  she  won't  let  the  town  help  her, 
what  more  can  be  done  ?  " 

"  She  went  to  Deacon  Hapgood,  who  owns  the  hovel  in 
which  she  lives,  to  get  him  to  take  off  ten  dollars  a  year  from 
her  rent.  But  the  deacon  didn't  see  how  he  could  afford  it, 
and  the  poor  woman  left  him,  to  continue  alone  her  struggle 
with  the  demon  of  poverty  as  best  she  might.  Yet  the  dea- 
con can  afford  to  give  a  hundred  dollars  a  year  to  the  mis- 
sions, and  says  he  never  feels  the  sacrifice." 


THE    HEW    MINISTER.  53 

"  I  will  see  Deacon  Hapgood,"  said  the  minister,  mus- 


"  I  hope  you  will  teach  him  that  '  charity  begins  at 
home.'  " 

"  The  hungry  can  be  fed,  the  naked  clothed,  the  houseless 
sheltered,  and  still  there  will  be  means  left  to  carry  on  the 
missions.  We  are  commanded  to  *  preach  the  gospel  to  all 
nations.'  " 

"  And  reminded  that  the  poor  are  always  with  us.  There 
is  Farmer  Jones  ;  he  can't  afford  to  buy  a  spelling  book  for 
his  daughter,  but  he  gives  large  sums  of  money  to  the  mis- 
sionary society." 

Mr.  Rogers,  who  was  an  earnest  seeker  after  truth,  and 
who  noblj  endeavored  to  do  his  duty,  began  to  feel  that 
there  was  a  great  deal  of  practical  wisdom  in  the  remarks  of 
the  schoolmistress. 

After  a  little  more  conversation,  in  relation  to  the  pro- 
posed tea  party,  he  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER    II. 

LOUISE  PEKCT,  without  being  very  beautiful  or  very  be- 
witching, was  a  very  sensible,  earnest,  straightforward  girl. 
With  a  warm  heart  and  a  generous  disposition,  she  was  free, 
open,  and  sincere  in  her  intercourse  with  the  world. 

Just  the  opposite  was  her  friend  and  confidant,  Susan 
Maylie,  though,  as  the  world  goes,  she  passed  for  a  good- 
hearted  person.  She  lacked  that  transparency  of  motive 
which  was  so  eminently  the  characteristic  of  Louise's  tem- 
perament. Where  no  strong  prejudice  actuated  her,  she 
5* 


54  THE    NEW   MINISTER. 

was  generally  prompt  in  her  choice  of  the  good  from  the 
evil,  though  sometimes  the  most  intimate  friend  was  invol- 
untarily led  to  suspect  her  motive. 

Six  months  before  we  introduce  them  to  the  reader,  the 
village  in  which  they  resided  was  thrown  into  commotion  by 
the  arrival  of  the  new  minister,  who  had  been  called  to  offi- 
ciate in  the  parish  church. 

He  was  young,  handsome,  and,  more  than  all,  unmarried. 
Straightway,  one  half  of  the  eligible  maidens  in  town  be- 
came interested  in  "serious  things."  The  prayer  meetings 
and  the  conference  meetings  were  all  at  once  found  to  be 
seasons  of  special  interest.  All  the  charitable  societies  con- 
nected with  the  church  suddenly  became  prosperous.  The 
missionary  society,  which  was  composed  of  ladies,  who  met 
once  a  month  at  the  sewing  circle,  received  a  new  impetus 
from  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Rogers. 

The  young  clergyman  made  it  a  point  to  attend  these 
meetings,  for  he  was  particularly  interested  in  the  enterprise 
of  sending  the  gospel  to  the  heathen.  He  had  preached  sev- 
eral sermons  on  his  favorite  topic,  and  his  exertions  were  re- 
warded by  the  creation  of  a  strong  and  unusual  feeling  on 
the  subject. 

Susan,  all  at  once,  found  her  mind  intently  engaged  in  the 
engrossing  subject.  It  is  true  she  had  learned  from  her 
father  to  ridicule  and  despise  the  missions  ;  but  then  her 
heart  was  hard,  and  the  ministrations  of  the  handsome 
young  clergyman  had  turned  her  mind  from  the  vanities  and 
vexations  of  life,  to  the  lofty  and  substantial  realities  of 
"  serious  things." 

Louise  could  not  help  noticing  the  sudden  and  remarkable 
change ;  but  then  Susan  so  constantly  spoke  of  the  minis- 


THE    NE\V    MINISTER.  55 

ter's  handsome  face  ;  so  often  sneered  at  the  thought  of  sun- 
dry village  belles,  whom  she  was  malicious  enough  to  accuse 
of  attempting  to  "  catch "  him,  that  she  readily  fathomed 
the  occasion  of  the  singular  transformation. 

Louise  got  out  of  patience  with  her  friend's  duplicity,  but 
suspecting  that  it  might  be  involuntary,  or  the  consequence 
of  a  want  of  consideration,  she  had  plainly  pointed  out  the 
inconsistency.  Susan  could  hardly  deny  the  fact,  and  feeling 
that  Louise  was  a  true  friend,  one  who  would  not  proclaim 
her  infirmity  to  the  world,  she  suffered  the  charge  to  pass 
unrefuted. 

"  I  am  going  to  set  up  an  opposition  to  the  missionary 
society,"  said  Louise,  after  Mr.  Rogers  had  gone. 

"  Pray,  what  mad  scheme  have  you  got  in  your  brain 
now  ?  "  asked  Susan. 

"  I  am  going  to  do  something  for  the  relief  of  Mrs.  Wes- 
ton." 

"  How  foolish  you  are  !  " 

"Ami?" 

"  You  are,  very  foolish.  It  is  the  town's  business  to  look 
out  for  paupers." 

"  It  is  my  business,  too,  and  yours,  Susan." 

"  I  am  sure  /  shall  not  meddle  with  it." 

"  We  have  each  of  us  reserved  five  dollars  for  charitable 
purposes,  you  know." 

"  Well  ? " 

"  I  shall  give  mine  to  Mrs.  Weston." 

"  And  I  shall  give  mine  to  the  missions.  I  thought  you 
were  going  to  do  the  same." 

"  I  have  altered  my  mind.  I  cannot  send  my  money  across 
the  ocean,  when  there  is  an  abundance  of  heathen  growing 


56  THE    NEW    MINISTEK. 

up  in  ignorance  around  us.  Now,  if  you  will  put  your  five 
dollars  with  mine,  it  will  just  make  up  the  amount  the  poor 
woman  asked  the  deacon  to  abate  her  rent." 

"  I  shall  do  no  such  thing,  I  assure  you.  I  am  too  much 
interested  in  the  missions  to  throw  my  money  away  upon 
the  town's  paupers." 

"  Very  well ;  I  will  not  urge  you." 

"What  do  you  suppose  Mr.  Rogers  would  say  if  I  should 
give  nothing  to  the  missions  ?  " 

"  Are  you  beholden  to  him  to  render  an  account  of  your 
stewardship  ?  For  my  part,  I  shouldn't  care  what  he  thought. 
Do  your  duty,  Susan,  let  folks  think  as  they  may.  If  I  had 
money  enough,  I  would  contribute  handsomely  towards  hav- 
ing the  gospel  preached  to  such  heathen  as  Deacon  Hapgood, 
Farmer  Jones,  and  some  others  who  support  missions,  while 
they  starve  their  own  souls  and  those  of  their  families." 

Susan,  knowing  how  obstinate  Louise  was  when  excited, 
refrained  from  opposing  the  purpose  she  had  announced,  and 
Louise  retired  to  her  room. 

"  Five  dollars,"  said  she,  musingly ;  "  it  is  more  than  a 
week's  pay  ;  but  she  shall  have  it ;  yes,  and  more  too.  Since 
Susan  has  refused  to  join  me  in  this  work  of  charity,  I  will 
give  another  five  dollars ;  and  then  how  happy  the  poor 
creature  will  be  !  " 

The  face  of  the  gentle-hearted  girl  lighted  up  with  an  in- 
voluntary smile,  as  she  opened  her  drawer  and  took  therefrom 
the  ten  dollars.  It  was  a  large  sum  for  her ;  but  she  cheer- 
fully resigned  the  pleasures  it  would  purchase,  and  looked 
forward  to  the  joy  she  was  about  to  carry  to  the  cottage  of 
the  drunkard's  wife. 

With  a  light  heart  she  tripped  down  the  road  to  execute 


THE    NEW    MINISTER.  57 

her  charitable  mission.  As  she  entered  the  hovel,  she  shrank 
back  at  the  scene  of  wretchedness  presented  to  her  view. 
The  poor  woman,  pale  and  haggard  with  care,  apparently 
with  one  foot-  in  the  grave,  was  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen 
ragged  children,  whom  her  utmost  exertions  could  hardly 
feed  with  the  coarsest  fare,  and  clothe  even  with  the  miser- 
able garments  that  only  half  covered  their  nakedness. 

Stating  the  object  of  her  visit,  Louise  handed  to  her  the 
ten  dollars. 

Mrs.  Weston  started  back  in  amazement.  Such  unheard- 
of  liberality  overwhelmed  her  with  confusion.  If  Deacon 
Hapgood  could  not  afford  to  take  off  ten  dollars  from  her 
rent,  how  could  a  poor  girl  afford  to  give  her  that  sum  out- 
right ?  Before  she  could  recover  her  self-possession  suffi- 
ciently to  express  her  gratitude,  the  young  minister  entered 
the  house. 

Mr.  Rogers  was  almost  as  much  astonished  at  the  generos- 
ity of  Louise  as  Mrs.  Weston  had  been ;  and  when  he  took 
his  leave,  he  gladdened  the  poor  creature's  heart  by  adding 
another  ten  dollars  to  the  gift. 


CHAPTER    III. 

AFTER  their  departure  from  Mrs.  Weston's,  Mr.  Rogers 
walked  by  the  side  of  Louise  towards  her  residence.  The 
conversation  was  earnest,  and  at  times  warm,  for  Louise 
had  opinions  of  her  own,  and  was  not  diffident  in  maintain- 
ing them,  even  against  the  eloquence  of  the  parson. 

Mr.  Rogers  was  not  less  pleased  with  the  spirit  and  inde- 
pendence of  his  companion  than  he  was  with  her  warm 


58  THE    NEW    MINISTEK. 

heart  and  charitable  disposition.  And  when  he  bade  adieu 
to  her  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Maylie's  house,  he  could  not  ban- 
ish her  from  his  mind. 

The  following  day  was  Sunday.  Oddly  enough  for  him, 
the  minister  had  not  a  word  to  say  about  missions  or  the 
heathen.  His  text  was,  "The  poor  ye  have  always  with 
you." 

It  was  a  noble  sermon,  showing  that  the  poor,  by  being 
continually  before  the  eye,  came  to  be  regarded  with  indif- 
ference and  neglect,  while  objects  of  charity  far  removed  by 
distance  excited  the  liveliest  sympathy  and  commiseration. 
He  demonstrated  that  the  first  duty  of  all  was  to  relieve  dis- 
tress in  their  midst ;  in  fine,  that  "  charity  begins  at  home." 
It  was  shown,  very  much  to  the  edification  of  Deacon  Hap- 
good,  who  sat  in  the  broad  aisle,  wondering  "  what  the  min- 
ister was  driving  at,"  that  a  rich  man  could  not  blind  the 
eye  of  his  Maker  by  giving  large  sums  to  the  missions,  while 
he  oppressed  the  poor,  and  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  their  prayer 
for  help. 

Louise  was  deeply  interested  in  the  sermon,  while  a  ma- 
jority of  the  congregation  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  Mr. 
Rogers  had  gone  crazy.  It  was  a  reflection  of  her  views, 
and  a  feeling  of  proud  satisfaction  pervaded  her  mind,  as  she 
reflected  that  she  had  been  instrumental  in  calling  the  min- 
ister's attention  to  the  subject. 

The  effect  of  the  sermon  was  immediate  and  substantial. 
Every  one  of  the  "  eligible  young  ladies  "  straightway  emp- 
tied the  contents  of  their  purses  into  Mrs.  Weston's  lap.  A 
society  was  proposed  for  ameliorating  the  condition  of  the 
poor,  whom  they  always  had  with  them.  But  Mr.  Rogers 
cruelly  vetoed  the  measure,  not  thinking  an  organized  effort 


THE    NEW    MINISXEK.  59 

necessary  to  complete  the  work,  especially  as  Mrs.  Weston, 
•who  -was,  perhaps,  the  only  destitute  person  in  town,  had 
money  enough  to  pay  a  year's  rent,  and  three  months'  pro- 
vision in  her  cellar. 

In  the  mean  time,  Mr.  Rogers  manifested  a  laudahle  in- 
terest in  the  welfare  of  the  village  school,  and  even  preached 
a  sermon  on  the  duty  of  parents  to  their  children.  He  vis- 
ited the  school  three  times  in  one  week,  besides  conferring 
four  distinct  and  separate  times  with  the  schoolmistress  at 
her  boarding-place  in  the  evening. 

"Well,  every  body  —  except  the  eligible  young  ladies  —  said 
it  was  the  minister's  duty  to  look  after  the  school,  and  see 
that  the  mistress  did  her  duty  ;  so  every  body,  with  the  ex- 
ception mentioned,  agreed  that  Mr.  Rogers  was  particularly 
faithful  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty. 

Susan  was  intensely  astonished  at  the  course  of  events, 
and  more  especially  was  she  pained  at  the  comparative  neg- 
lect with  which  the  missions  had  come  to  be  regarded.  Other 
charities,  nearer  home,  shared  the  sympathies  of  the  young 
and  handsome  pastor,  and  she  suddenly  realized  that  her 
extraordinary  exertions  in  spreading  the  gospel  among  the 
heathen  had  failed  to  accomplish  the  purpose  she  had  in 
view.  But  hope  had  not  yet  deserted  her.  Her  eyes  were 
not  as  wide  open  as  they  might  have  been,  and  she  did  not 
yet  fully  understand  the  "  signs  of  the  times." 

"  "What  a  blessed  field  of  usefulness  is  open  to  the  teacher 
of  the  district  school !  "  exclaimed  she,  one  day,  to  her  con- 
fidant, the  schoolmistress. 

Louise  looked  up  from  the  book  she  was  reading,  aston- 
ished at  the  remark  —  not  at  the  important  truth  involved  in 
it,  but  that  it  should  proceed  from  such  a  source. 


60  THE    NEW 

"  It  is,  indeed,  an  interesting  field  of  labor  to  those  who 
can  appreciate  it,"  replied  she,  a  smile  of  intelligence  cross- 
ing her  good-natured  countenance. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  Louise,  that  I  might  be  useful  it 
that  capacity." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it." 

"  And  I  understand  ttiat  the  school  in  the  south  district 
will  be  vacant  in  a  few  weeks ;  don't  you  think  I  could  pro- 
cure the  appointment  ?  " 

"  Why,  Susan,  you  do  not  really  intend  to  become  a  teach- 
er, do  you?" 

"I  certainly  do.  I  feel  that  I  have  suffered  too  many 
years  of  my  life  to  pass  away  in  idleness.  I  intend  to  re- 
deem the  time." 

"  You  cannot  mean  it ! " 

"  I  am  in  earnest.  Do  you  think  I  could  get  the  ap- 
pointment ? " 

"  I  can  point  you  to  a  place  nearer  home,  if  you  are  really 
esirous  of  becoming  a  teacher." 

"  What  place  ?  " 

"  You  may  have  mine  in  the  course  of  a  month  or  two." 

"  Yours,  Louise  !  " 

"  I  shall  send  in  my  resignation  next  week." 

"  Why,  Louise,  I  had  no  idea  that  you  intended  to  aban- 
don teaching,"  said  Susan,  with  undisguised  astonishment ; 
and,  as  she  had  regarded  the  attentions  her  friend  received 
from  the  handsome  young  minister  with  a  jealous  eye,  per- 
haps the  announcement  was  received  with  some  small  degree 
of  satisfaction. 

"  I  had  no  such  intention  a  few  days  ago.     But  if  you 


THE    NEW   MINISTEB.  61 

wish  for  my  place,  you  can  have  the  opportunity  of  making 
the  first  application." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  get  it." 

"  I  will  mention  the  subject  when  I  send  in  my  resig- 
nation." 

"  But,  Louise,  you  have  never  told  us  any  thing  about 
this.  Pray,  what  is  going  to  happen  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  must  tell  you  the  secret.  Of  course  you  will 
not  betray  my  confidence  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married  this  fall ;  "  and  Louise  blushed 
up  to  her  eyes. 

"  Going  to  be  married  !  My  goodness  !  And  we  never 
even  found  out  that  you  had  a  beau." 

"  It  has  been  rather  sudden." 

"  I  should  think  it  had.  Who  is  the  fortunate  gentle- 
man ?  " 

"  Mr.  Rogers." 

"  Mr.  Rogers  !  "  exclaimed  Susan,  starting  back  in  blank 
amazement,  while  the  color  deserted  her  cheeks,  and  her 
heart  fluttered  with  emotion. 

"  Just  so.  From  the  time  we  met  at  Mrs.  Weston's,  when 
1  gave  the  poor  woman  my  money,  he  has  been  very  atten- 
tive —  and,  in  short,  the  matter  is  now  settled." 

"  Well,  I  am  astonished  !  " 

Susan  was  astonished. 

"  I  cannot  wonder  ;  I  am  astonished  myself.  But,  Susan, 
I  think  I  shall  carry  in  my  resignation  to-morrow,  and  you 
had  better  have  a  written  application  ready." 

Susan  bit  her  lips  with  vexation,  and  even  wondered  tha 
6 


62  THE    NEW   MINISTER. 

» 

she  had  not  oeen  fool  enough  to  give  her  money  to  Mrs. 
"Weston,  instead  of  the  missionary  society. 

"  I  think,  on  the  whole,  Louise,  that  I  shall  not  hecome  a 
teacher  at  present,"  said  she,  as  she  turned,  and  abruptly  left 
the  room. 

In  the  fall  Mr.  Rogers  and  Louise  were  married.  The 
parsonage  is  the  home  of  peace,  love,  and  charity.  Mrs. 
Rogers  is  a  model  minister's  wife,  and  though  the  missionary 
cause  receives  an  earnest  support,  she  still  believes,  and  acts 
upon  the  belief,  that  "  CHAEITT  BEGINS  AT  HOME." 


"OUT  NIGHTS;" 

OB, 

BELONGING    TO    THE  "SONS." 
CHAPTER    I. 

» 

"  DON'T  go  out  to-night,  Charles,"  said  Mrs.  Prescott,  t> 
pretty,  sweet-smiling  lady,  who  had  been  married  just  six 
months,  to  her  husband. 

"  Really,  Carrie,  I  am  very  sorry ;  but  I  do  not  see  how  I 
can  be  absent  from  the  meeting'to-night,"  replied  the  young 
husband,  as  he  brought  his  great-coat  from  the  entry. 

"  You  always  say  so.  I  wish  you  did  not  belong  to  the 
'  Sons.'  Can't  you  leave  them?  " 

"  I  could,  my  dear,  if  I  desired ;  I  have  no  wish  to  do  so." 

"  Wouldn't  you  do  it  to  please  me  ?  "  said  the  lady,  smil- 
ing so  sweetly  that  one  could  have  found  it  in  his  hear,t  to  do 
almost  any  thing  for  her. 

"  You  do  not  seriously  wish  me  to  do  so." 

"  Nay,  I  do." 

"  Think,  Carrie." 

"  I  am  jealous  of  that  society." 

"  Fie  ! "      ' 

"  You  leave  me  here  all  alone,  and  you  can' t  think  how 
lonesome  I  am." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  leave  you ;  but,  really,  I  feel  it  to  be 

(63) 


64  OUT    NIGHTS. 

my  duty  to  sustain  so  good  an  association  as  the  *  Sons  of 
Temperance.' " 

"  There  are  enough  without  you." 

"  All  might,  with  equal  propriety,  say  so." 

"  They  do  not  all  leave  a  wife  alone  at  home." 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"  Can't  you  belong  to  them  without  going  to  the  meetings 
every  night  ? " 

"I  should  not  wish  to  do  that.  To  be  a  merely  nominal 
member  of  the  Order  is  to  be  nothing  at  all." 

"  You  would  be  giving  your  name  and  influence  to  the 
cause  of  temperance  just  as  much  as  you  do  by  attending 
the  meetings." 

"  What  is  the  cause  of  temperance,  Carrie  ?  I  fear  you 
give  it  a  very  vague  construction,  like  many  others  in  the 
community." 

"  Why,  preventing  and  curing  intemperance." 

"  Preventing  and  curing  it  in  whom  ?  " 

"  Every  body,  I  suppose  —  all  your  friends  and  neighbors." 

"  But  not  yourself." 

"  There  is  no  danger  of  you,  Charles." 

"  But  I  joined  the  Sons  quite  as  much  for  my  own  sake 
as  for  that  of  others."  x 

"  You  don't  think  you  are  in  any  danger  of  becoming  a 
drunkard,  do  you  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Prescott,  with  a  smile  of 
incredulity. 

"  Not  while  I  am  as  strongly  fortified  against  the  vice  of 
drinking  as  I  am  now." 

"  Pooh !  I  would  risk  you,  even  if  you  did  not  belong  to 
the  Sons." 

"  Suppose  I  should  abandon  them,  and  permit  myself  to 


OUT    NIGHTS.  65 

be  influenced  by  the  example  of  those  around  me  —  of  your 
brother  Frank,  for  example  ?  Suppose  I  should  shake  off 
my  allegiance  to  the  principle  of  total  abstinence,  how  long 
would  it  take  me  to  get  rid  of  all  my  scruples  against  drink- 
ing a  glass  of  wine  ?  " 

"  Can't  you  adhere  to  the  principle  without  belonging  to 
a  society?" 

"  Association  strengthens  principle." 

"  You  don't  steal,  Charles ;  on  principle,  you  would  not 
steal ;  but  is  it  necessary  that  you  should  belong  to  an  anti- 
thieving  society  ? "  and  the  pretty  young  wife's  features 
wore  an  expression  of  triumph. 

"  Drinking  is  a  fashionable  vice  ;  stealing  is  not.  When 
the  community  regards  the  fashionable  wine  bibber  as  it  does 
the  thief,  there  will  be  no  occasion  for  associated  effort  to 
restrain  it.  Popular  opinion  will  do  the  work  which  the 
Sons  are  now  doing." 

"  But  I  don't  think  there  is  any  need  of  going  so  con- 
stantly," replied  the  wife.  "Do  stay  with  me  to-night;  I 
feel  so  lonesome." 

"  The  Order  acts  upon  some  particular  business  to-night, 
and " 

"  Particular  business  again ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Prescott, 
with  a  good-natured  laugh. 

"  It  does  indeed." 

"  Always  so." 

"  Besides,  I  am  W.  P.,  you  know." 

"W.  T.,  you  mean." 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

"  Wife  tormentor." 

"  Nay,  Carrie " 

6* 


66  OUT    NIGHTS. 

"  Go  along ;  I  will  excuse  you  to-night ;  but  don't  stay 
late." 

"  No,  dear." 

"  It  was  eleven  o'clock  before  you  got  home  last  Saturday 
night." 

"  I  -will  be  home  by  ten  to-night ;  "  and  Charles  Prescott 
kissed  his  pretty,  smiling  wife  —  we  beg  the  reader  to  re- 
member that  they  had  been  married  but  six  months  —  and 
left  the  house. 

CHAPTER    II. 

MRS.  PRESCOTT  did  not  appear  to  be  half  so  lonesome  as 
she  had  pretended  she  was  ;  for,  as  her  little  white  hand  del- 
icately and  daintily  grasped  the  needle,  the  same  involuntary 
smile  played  on  her  pretty  lips  that  had  been  there  while  her 
husband  was  present. 

Her  thoughts  must  have  been  very  pleasant,  or  she  could 
not  have  worn  that  bewitching  smile.  Her  soft,  gazelle-like 
eye,  too,  beamed  forth  the  language  of  a  pure  and  beautiful 
soul  —  a  soul  at  rest  among  the  flowers  of  its  own  tender 
rearing. 

She  was  thinking,  and  her  thoughts  were  full  of  joy. 
What  a  happy  wife  she  was  !  But  perhaps  her  view  of  mat- 
rimony was  mingled  with  something  of  sentiment  —  a  few 
grains  of  that  amiable  moonshine  which  strews  flowers  and 
perfumes  in  the  pathway  of  the  young  wife. 

Alas  that  the  blight  of  coldness  should  ever  come  to 
wither  those  flowers  which  the  young  and  loving  wife  scat- 
ters in  her  pathway  !  Alas  that  the  cares  and  trials  of  life 
should  ever  come  and  cast  a  great,  broad  shadow  over  that 
moon  o£  her  dreams. 


OUT    NIGHTS.  67 

Mrs.  Prescott  was  happy,  and  she  was  thinking  how  happy 
she  was.  Charles  was  all  love  and  devotion.  He  was  in- 
dustrious, frugal,  and  temperate ;  and,  though  they  lived  in 
a  humble  house  and  in  a  humble  street,  she  sighed  not  for 
the  fine  things  her  neighbors  had. 

They  lived  comfortably  ;  and,  while  her  husband  loved 
her,  she  cared  not  for  tapestry  carpets  and  velvet-covered 
lounges. 

Charles  had  only  one  failing ;  and  that  wasu  an  earnest  de- 
votion to  the  Order  of  the  Sons  of  Temperance,  which  drew 
him  away  from  her  side  every  Saturday  night.  He  never 
left  the  house  any  other  evening  without  her  ;  and  undoubt- 
edly he  would  have  insisted  on  her  joining  the  order,  only 
that  it  was  a  secret  society ;  consequently  no  women  could 
be  tolerated  within  its  pale. 

Mrs.  Prescott  could  not  see  why  her  husband  should  be  a 
"  Son ;  "  he  was  strictly  temperate  in  his  habits.  Poor 
wife !  She  neglected  to  inquire  into  the  reason  of  his 
being  so. 

She  plied  her  needle,  and  smiled  forth  the  joy  that  was  in 
her  heart.  She  was  so  happy  and  contented  that  there  was 
only  one  thing  left  her  to.  wish  for  —  that  her  husband  was 
with  her. 

About  half  an  hour  after  Charles  had  gone,  her  brother 
Frank,  who  had  been  married  nearly  a  year,  called  with  his 
wife. 

"  I  have  got  to  go  down  to  the  store  and  post  up  the 
books,  Carrie,  and  I  have  brought  Lucy  to  stay  with  you ; 
she  was  afraid  to  stay  alone,"  said  Frank  Winslow,  after  the 
two  wives  had  kissed  each  other,  and  said  sundry  pretty 
tLings  about  the  weather  and  the  walking. 


68  .  OTJT   NIGHTS. 

"  I  am  glad  you  did ;  I  am  all  alone  myself." 

"  Where's  Charley  ?  " 

"  Gone  to  the  lodge." 

"  What  lodge  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mean  the  lodge  —  the  meeting  -of  the  « Sons.' " 

"  Bah ! " 

"  He  goes  every  Saturday  night." 

"  What  a  pity  !  Charley  is  a  good  fellow,  and  it  is  a 
great  shame  that  he  should  herd  with  those  fanatics,"  said 
Frank  Winslow. 

"  Don't  you  talk  so  about  my  husband,  Frank,"  interposed 
the  loving  wife.  "  He  is  not  half  so  much  of  a  fanatic  on 
temperance  as  you  are  on  cognac  and  sherry." 

"  Fie,  sis  !  I  believe  in  all  sorts  of  good  things ;  and 
being  a  Son  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  next  thing  to  being  a 
fool." 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  him  so  ?  " 

"  I  would  if  he  were  here.  You  don't  think  I  am  afraid 
of  him,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  the  last  time  you  argued  the  question  with 
him ". 

"  Bah  !  "  exclaimed  Frank,  impatiently. 

Promising  to  call  for  his  wife  by  ten  o'clock,  he  left  the 
house. 

"  I  hope  our  husbands  won't  quarrel  over  this  temperance 
question,"  said  Mrs.  Winslow. 

"  I  hope  not." 

"  But  this  '  Sons '  business  does  seem  so  silly  to  me  that  I 
cannot  wonder  Frank  laughs  at  him." 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  any  thing  about  it,  only  that  Charles 
is  out  so  late  every  night  at  the  meetings." 


OUT    NIGHTS.  69 

"  And  leaves  you  all  alone  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Winslow. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  wouldn't  let  Mm  !  It  is  a  shame  !  Why,  I  should  go 
into  fits  if  my  husband  left  me  alone  till  eleven  o'clock !  " 
and  Mrs.  Winslow  was  horrified  at  the  very  thought. 

"  I  have  said  a  good  deal  about  it." 

"  Said !  Why,  I  would  tip  the  house  over  before  I  would 
submit  to  it." 

"  He  is  so  deeply  interested  in  it." 

"  He  ought  to  be  deeply  interested  in  his  wife  too." 

"  Nay,  nay,  Lucy,  you  wrong  him.  He  loves  me  with  all 
his  soul." 

"  And  leaves  you  alone  till  eleven  o'clock  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  afraid  to  stay  alone." 

"  Why,  it's  almost  as  bad  as  having  a  drunken  husband  to 
sit  up  fpr." 

"  O,  no,  I'm  sure  it  is  not." 

Charles  Prescott  was  warmly  condemned  by  the  visitor/ 
and  warmly  defended  by  the  wife,  who,  poor  thing,  though 
she  wished  he  would  stay  at  home,  could  not  bear  to  hear  a 
word  said  against  him. 


CHAPTER    III. 

BEFORE  ten  o'clock,  the  two  ladies  had  settled  the  question 
of  Charles's  defection,  and  passed  naturally  enough  into 
mousse  de  laines,  laces,  and  the  newest  fashions.  Mrs. 
Winslow  did  not  like  to  say  that  he  was  a  monster  in 
the  hearing  of  his  wife  ;  but  she  fully  believed  it ;  and  Mrs. 
Prescott,  moved  by  the  arguments  of  her  friend,  concluded 


70  OUT    NIGHTS. 

that  she  was  used  much  more  hardly  than  she  had  ever 
suspected. 

Punctual  to  his  appointed  hour,  Charles  came  home.  Mrs. 
Winslow  playfully  upbraided  him  for  his  want  of  constancy 
in  leaving  his  wife  to  spend  the  evening  alone  ;  but  the  hus- 
band made  a  "  moral  question  "  of  it,  and  proceeded  to  dis- 
cuss the  topic  at  length. 

An  hour  was  used  up  in  the  unprofitable  argument,  and 
the  clock  struck  eleven. 

Mrs.  "Winslow  yawned,  and  wondered  why  Frank  did  not 
come  —  began  to  think  the  books  must  have  gotten  into  a 
snarl  to  keep  him  so  late. 

It  was  half  past  eleven  before  he  came. 

"  How  are  ye,  old  boy  ?  "  said  he,  grasping  the  hand  of 
Prescott.  "  How  are  the  Sons  to-night  ?  " 

"  As  usual  —  thriving." 

"  What  makes  you  so  late,  Frank  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Winslow. 
"  You  promised  to  come  at  ten  o'clock." 

"  The  books  got  a  little  twisted.     But  sit  down,  Suke ;  I 
want  to  talk  with  Charley ;  "  and  Frank  threw  himself  into 
a  rocking  chair  before  the  fire. 
,  "  No,  no,  Frank  ;  it  is  almost  twelve  o'clock." 

"  Never  mind  ;  sit  down.  They  say  there  is  more  liquor 
drank  since  the  Maine  law  was  made  than  ever  before,"  said 
Frank,  turning  to  Charles  Prescott. 

"  And  there  is  more  cheating,  killing,  and  stealing  since 
the  ten  commandments  were  made  than  ever  before.  What 
does  that  prove  ?  ',' 

"  Bah !  " 

"  You  refer  to  the  golden  calf?  " 

"  Seriously,  Charley,  in  my  opinion,  the  fanatics  who  made 


OUT    NIGHTS.  71 

that  law  ougat  to  be  held  responsible  for  half  the  drunken- 
ness in  the  community." 

"  And  Paul,  Peter,  and  John  for  half  the  sin  the  gospel 
was  intended  to  prevent." 

"  You  talk  like  one  of  the  fanatics,"  said  Frank,  nis  cheek 
reddening  with  anger. 

"  I  merely  change  the  application  of  the  principles  which 
your  remarks  cover." 

"  You  distort  them.  A  fanatic  can't  argue  the  question 
fairly.  Come,  Suke,  let's  go  home." 

Frank  Winslow  rose  from  his  chair,  but  instantly  sank 
back  again. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Frank  ?  "  asked  his  wife. 

"  Nothing ;  don't  you  see  ? "  and  he  attempted  to  rise 
again,  but  without  success. 

"  What  ails  you?     How  strange  you  act !  " 

"  Your  Sons  and  your  Maine  laws  are  a  humbug,  Charley ; 
there's  no  rubbing  that  out.  Tell  me  about  your  —  hie  — 
Maine  law ! " 

"  O  Heavens  !  "  groaned  the  poor  wife. 

"  What  the  deuse's  the  —  hie  —  matter  now  ?  " 

It  was  too  plain  to  be  longer  concealed ;  Frank  Winslow 
was  drunk !  The  heat  of  the  room  was  revealing  the  terri- 
ble truth  to  the  poor  wife,  to  the  fond  sister,  that  the  hus- 
band and  brother  was  helplessly  intoxicated  ! 

Charles  Prescott  was  shocked  ;  Carrie's  cheek  was  pale, 
and  her  frame  trembled  ;  that  smile  was  gone,  for  the  loving 
brother  was  a  drunkard  ! 

It  was  an  agonizing  moment  to  the  fond  wife.  Mountains 
of  sombre  clouds  came  rolling  down  before  her  bewildered 
flenses,  and  the  future  was  dark  with  poverty,  woe,  disgrace. 


72  OUT    NIGHTS. 

and  death.  The  drunkard's  grave  yawned  like  a  cavern  of 
hell  in  the  path  of  her  husband. 

"  O,  Frank,  Frank  !  "  exclaimed  she,  throwing  herself  into 
his  arms,  and  bathing  his  brow  with  her  woman's  tears. 

"  What  in ails  you  all  ?  "  said  Frank,  gazing  round 

him  with  a  drunken  leer. 

Charles  attempted  to  get  him  upon  his  feet ;  but  he  was 
utterly  helpless. 

"  Let  me  —  hie  —  alone.  I  am  none  of  your  cussed  — 
hie  —  fanatics,  that  can't  go  alone ; "  and  he  fell  at  full 
length  upon  the  floor. 

Mrs.  Winslow  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  and  sobbed  in 
bitterness  of  spirit.  Carrie  wept  upon  her  bosom.  It  was  a 
sad  sight,  that  group  of  weepers  over  the  drunken  body  of  a 
noble-hearted,  generous  young  man.  Angels  weep  over  such 
pitiable  objects. 

With  much  difficulty  Charles  Prescott  succeeded  in  putting 
him  to  bed ;  but,  to  all  save  the  besotted  inebriate,  it  was  a 
sleepless  night.  Tears  stained  'the  pillow  of  the  wife  and 
.  sister,  and  silent  prayers  rose  to  heaven  for  the  preservation 
of  the  erring  young  man. 

Morning  came,  and  Frank  had  slept  off  his  debauch.  He 
was*  conscious  of  his  position,  and  with  shame  and  humil- 
iation he  presented  himself  in  the  breakfast  room  of  his 
friend.  The  pale,  anxious  faces,  the  red  and  swollen  eyes  of 
his  wife  and  sister,  told  him  what  they  had  suffered. 

Like  a  true  man,  he  acknowledged  his  fault,  and  promised 
to  amend.  Charles  pointed  out  the  necessity  of  making  a 
principle  of  abstinence,  to  which  he  assented,  and  promised 
to  connect  himself  with  the  Sons.  He  kept  his  promise,  and 
in  a  few  weeks  was  initiated. 


OUT   NIGHTS.  73 

Mrs.  Prescott,  after  the  impressive  lesson  she  had  received 
from  the  experience  of  her  brother,  was  convinced  that  ac- 
tive membership  in  a  temperance  society,  or  at  least  a  cher- 
ished principle  of  abstinence,  was  necessary  in  these  degen- 
erate days  for  the  salvation  of  the  young  man. 

Her  husband  had  resisted  temptation  through  the  salutary 
influence  of  the  "  Sons  ;  "  and  she  could  not  but  reflect  how 
unreasonable  she  had  been  in  attempting  to  lure  him  away 
from  the  fountain  of  his  principle. 

Even  Mrs.  Winslow  has  so  far  overcome  her  timidity  as  to 
be  content  to  stay  alone  every  Saturday  night  while  her  hus- 
band attends  the  meetings  of  the  Order.  It  is  a  blessed 
thing  for  the  wife  to  be  assured  that,  while  he  is  away  from 
her  in  those  hours  which  properly  belong  to  her,  he  is  fortify- 
ing his  soul  against  the  temptations  that  every  where  beset 
him. 

7 


BEING   FLOWERS; 

OB, 

GOING    INTO    MOUENING. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  I  AM  sure  they  cannot  care  much  for  their  sister,  for  nol 
one  of  them  had  eren  a  black  ribbon  on  her  bonnet,"  said 
Mabel  Grant  to  her  invalid  sister. 

"Nay,  Mabel,  you  must  not  judge  them  harshly." 

"  But  only  think  of  it !  Even  her  mother  did  not  so  much 
as  change  her  bonnet." 

"  Probably  they  have  views  and  opinions  of  their  own 
upon  the  subject,"  replied  Mary  Grant,  feebly,  for  she  was 
in  the  last  stage  of  consumption,  —  that  dreadful  scourge  of 
our  northern  clime,  —  and  even  the  exertion  of  speaking  a 
few  words  was  exceedingly  tiresome. 

"  And  poor  Ellen  Lawson,  our  dear  friend  and  schoolmate, 
one  of  the  fairest  and  truest  girls  in  the  village  —  to  think 
that  she  should  go  down  to  her  early  grave  without  even  a 
show  of  mourning  in  her  own  family.  It  looks  like  sacrilege 
to  me." 

"  Nay,  Mabel,  your  respect  for  a  mere  custom  causes  you 
to  disregard  the  plainest  dictates  of  charity." 

'*  I  do  not  mean  to  be  uncharitable." 

(74) 


BRING    FLOWERS.  75 

"  I  know  it,  Mabel ;  but  you  must  remember  that  the  prac- 
tice of  putting  on  mourning  is  only  a  custom ;  and  there  is 
no  sacrifice  of  love  or  principle  in  disregarding  the  custom." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know ;  I  cannot  think  they  loved  poor 
Ellen  as  she  deserved  to  be  loved." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

'*  Because,  if  they  had,  they  would  at  least  have  shown  a 
decent  respect  for  her  while  they  stood  around  her  bier." 

"  Did  they  seem  to  be  cold,  indifferent  ?  "  asked  the  in- 
valid, with  a  great  deal  of  interest. 

"  No  ;  Mrs.  Lawson  was  very  much  affected  while  in  the 
'emetery.  She  sobbed  as  though  her  heart  would  break." 

"  Indeed ! " 

"  But  it  did  not  seem  to  be  real,  her  dress  was  so  inap- 
propriate." 

"  You  wrong  her,  Mabel." 

"  I  hope  I  do." 

"  You  cannot  see  into  the  heart." 

"  And  her  sisters,  too,  if  they  had  not  worn  white  bonnets, 
Rrould  have  seemed  like  real  mourners." 

"  The  heart  weeps,  Mabel,  not  the  dress,  nor  even  the 
tearful  eye.  Many  a  one  in  sable  weeds  has  felt  no  sorrow 
for  the  loss  of  a  parent  or  a  friend." 

"  That  may  be ;  but  don't  you  think  yourself  that  white 
bonnets  a»d  blue  dresses  are  very  improper  at  the  funeral  of 
a  near  friend  ?  " 

"  It  would  not  be  my  taste,  Mabel,"  replied  Mary,  with  a 
faint  smile.  "  But  I  wish  to  accord  to  every  one  the  priv- 
ilege of  doing  as  they  please  in  a  matter  of  this  kind." 

"  So  do  I ;  of  course  they  have  the  right  to  wear  what 
they  please."" 


76  BEING    FLOWEBS. 

"  You  censure  them,  though." 

"Not  censure  them,  Mary;  I  only  say  that  it  looks  as 
though  they  did  not  care  much  for  poor  Ellen." 

"  You  impugn  their  motives  ;  you  ought  to  be  charitable 
to  them,  however  strange  they  may  seem  to  act." 

"  I  will,  sister  ;  but  if  I  had  lost  a  friend,  I  should  feel  as 
though  I  was  deficient  in  respect  to  the  memory  of  that  friend, 
if  I  did  not  put  on  mourning." 

Mary  sighed ;  she  knew  not  how  soon  that  dear  sister 
would  be  called  upon  to  put  on  mourning  for  her.  Even 
another  day  of  existence  might  not  be  permitted  her.  She 
was  calmly  waiting  the  hour  that  would  bear  her  from  the 
scenes  of  earth  to  that  brighter  realm  beyond  the  dark  grave. 
Already  she  heard  the  music  of  the  angel's  fluttering  wing, 
and  was  ready  to  lay  her  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth. 

Mabel  penetrated  her  sister's  thoughts,  and  turned  away 
to  hide  a  tear,  which  sprung  unbidden  to  her  eye. 

"  There  are  many  things  to  be  considered,  Mabel,  in  rela- 
tion to  the  custom  of  wearing  mourning.  For  my  part  I 
think  it  would  be  far  better  if  the  practice  was  entirely  dis- 
continued." 

"  Why,  Mary  !  how  strange  you  talk  !  " 

"  You  can  conceive  how  very  disagreeable  it  must  be  for 
those  who  are  waiting  to  consign  the  remains  of  a  dear  friend 
to  the  tomb,  to  be  compelled  to  attend  upon  mantjiamakers 
and  milliners." 

Mabel  had  never  thought  of  that  before. 

"  No  sooner  has  the  spirit  taken  its  flight,  than  the  house 
of  death  is  made  the  scene  of  commotion  and  confusion  by 
the  preparations  to  appear  in  black.  That  holy  sorrow, 
which  craves  solitude,  is  broken  in  upon  by  the  cares  of  busi- 


BEING    FLOWEKS.  77 

ness  —  by  the  necessity  of  conforming  to  a  mere  fashion  which 
requires  the  mourner  to  make  a  vain  show." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,  Mary;  pray,  do  not  talk  any 
more.  You  are  quite  exhausted." 

Mary  said  no  more.  A  shade  of  deep  thought  rested  upon 
her  pallid  features.  She  was  thinking  how  much  more  sooth- 
ing it  would  be,  when  her  redeemed  spirit  sped  its  flight,  if 
her  friends  could  only  think  of  her  while  her  lifeless  clay 
remained  with  them,  without  the  intrusion  of  milliners  and 
dressmakers. 


CHAPTER    II. 

IT  was  spring  time,  and  the  joyous  birds  sung  their  cheer- 
ful notes  upon  the  blossoming  trees.  The  flowers  were 
blooming  upon  the  hill  side,  and  Nature  was  assuming  her 
verdant  robes. 

Under  the  influence  of  the  mild,  balmy  air  of  the  spring, 
Mary  Grant  seemed  to  revive.  Her  strength  appeared  to  re- 
turn with  the  opening  buds,  and  her  friends  dared  to  hope 
that  she  might  be  spared  to  behold  the  profusion  of  another 
summer,  the  glories  of  another  autumn.  But  the  disease  was 
deceptive.  While  hope  smiles,  the  destroyer  comes. 

The  physician,  after  giving  the  parents  of  Mary  all  the  en- 
couragement he  could,  directed  his  patient  to  ride  out  as  often 
as  the  weather  would  permit. 

The  invalid  was  happy  in  the  privilege  of  once  more  in- 
haling the  balmy  breezes,  of  once  again  visiting  the  cher- 
ished scenes,  where,  in  the  full  vigor  of  health  and  joy,  sha 
had  gayly  and  thoughtlessly  roamed. 

«    7* 


78  BEING    JFLOWEES. 

The  village  cemetery  had  always  been  a  hallowed  aad 
beautiful  spot  to  her,  and  she  expressed  a  desire  to  visit  it 
again,  ere  her  inanimate  form  should  be  laid  away  to  slumber 
beneath  its  peaceful  bosom. 

With  Mabel  for  her  companion,  the  carriage  was  slowly 
driven  through  the  garden  of  graves.  Mary  was  silent  and 
thoughtful ;  and  more  than  once  a  tear  rose  to  the  eye  of 
Mabel,  when  she  thought  how  soon  she  might  be  called  upon 
to  follow  the  cold  form  of  the  loved  one  to  her  resting-place. 

The  invalid  was  thoughtful,  but  not  gloomy.  Already  tho 
spirit  had  reached  forward  to  the  glories  of  that  better  world 
where  there  is  no  death,  no  sorrow.  The  grave  had  no  ter- 
rors to  her ;  it  was  a  place  of  rest.  Death  was  not  a  hid- 
eous, quaking  skeleton  to  her  imagination,  but  a  white- 
winged  angel,  who  would  fold  her  upon  his  bosom,  and  bear 
her  across  the  dark  valley  to  the  "  house  with  many  man- 
sions, eternal  in  the  heavens." 

With  introverted  thoughts  she  gazed  upon  the  memorials 
of  the  slumbering  dead.  The  funereal  fir,  the  pendent  wil- 
low that  swept  over  the  green  graves,  diffused  a  heavenly 
calm  in  her  heart,  and  she  felt  ready  to  join  the  great  com- 
pany that  slept  beneath  them. 

"  There  is  a  new-made  grave,"  said  she,  as  the  carriage 
turned  the  angle  of  one  of  the  avenues. 

"  It  is  the  grave  of  poor  Ellen  Lawson,"  replied  Mabel. 

Mary  requested  the  driver  to  stop. 

On  the  grave,  over  which  no  marble  had  yet  been  reared, 
•were  several  bouquets  of  fresh  flowers.  Some  little  white 
blossoms,  which  had  been  transplanted  near  the  head,  were 
opening  their  tiny  buds. 

"  Still  remembered,  Mabel,"  said  Mary,  as  she  pointed  to 
the  flowers. 


BRIXO    FLOWERS.  79 

"  They  place  fresh  flowers  upon  her  grave  every  day." 

"  And  do  you  think  they  did  not  love  her,  Mabel  ?  " 

"  O,  sister,  I  know  they  did  !  " 

"  And  wore  no  black  at  her  funeral  ?  " 

"  I  was  wrong,  Mary." 

"  These  are  meet  emblems  of  the  heart's  remembrance. 
When  I  go.  hence,  may  the  flowers  of  spring  blossom  upon 
my  grave.  May  some  loving  hand  place  flowers  upon  the 
sod  that  hides  me  from  those  I  loved  on  earth." 

"  You  are  sad,  sister ;  do  not  speak  so  gloomily." 

"  Nay,  Mabel,  I  am  not  sad  ;  I  am  happy." 

Mabel  shed  a  flood  of  tears  upon  the  bosom  of  her  sister. 

"  Do  not  weep,  Mabel ;  we  shall  meet  in  heaven,  and  be 
happy  there  forever." 

"  You  are  better,  dear  sister ;  do  not  speak  so  hopelessly." 

"  Only  a  little  while  longer,  and  I  shall  rest  beneath  this 
sod.  But  do  not  be  sad  ;  I  am  happy :  I  am  not  afraid  to, 
die.  I  feel  as  though  the  angels  were  with  me  now,  waiting 
to  bear  me  to  my  home  in  the  skies." 

Mabel  cast  another  glance  at  the  flower-decked  grave  of 
Ellen  Lawson,  as  the  carriage  drove  on,  and  she  felt  that  the 
heart  could  more  eloquently  express  its  remembrance  of  the 
loved  and  lost,  than  by  a  display  of  the  sable  weeds  of  the 
mourner. 


CHAPTER    III. 

MAEY  GKANT  went  out  of  the  house  no  more.  In  another 
week  her  waiting  spirit  bade  farewell  to  earth,  and  winged 
its  way  to  ita  native  skies.  Calmly  and  trustingly,  while  a 


80  BEING    FLOWEBS. 

heavenly  smile  played  upon  her  irradiated  features,  she. 
breathed  her  last  in  the  arms  of  Mabel. 

She  was  gone  !  Her  wasted  form,  from  which  the  undying 
soul  had  just  taken  its  flight,  lay  in  rigid  silence  before  her. 
She  was  beautiful  in  death  —  so  beautiful  that  Mabel  could 
hardly  believe  she  was  dead ;  that  those  lips,  parted  in  a 
placid  smile,  could  no  more  speak  gentle  counsel  to  her  ;  that 
those  eyes,  now  motionless  and  sealed,  could  no  more  reflect 
the  love  of  that  affectionate  heart  upon  her. 

But  a  moment  before,  she  had  bidden  her  farewell.  Could 
she  be  dead  ?  Was  it  indeed  true  that  those  smiling  lips 
were  forever  sealed ;  that  another  note  of  sisterly  love  could 
not  proceed  from  them  ? 

Kind  friends  were  waiting  to  prepare  the  body  for  the 
sepulchre,  and  a  gentle  hand  led  her  away  from  the  inan- 
imate form.  Then,  then  she  realized  that  her  sister  was  in- 
deed dead,  and  a  torrent  of  woe  swept  wildly  into  her  heart. 

Flying  to  her  chamber,  she  gave  free  vent  to  her  grief. 

"  She  is  gone  !  She  is  gone  !  "  sobbed  she,  as  she  buried 
her  face  beneath  her  hands,  and  trembled  in  the  agony  of  her 
emotion. 

Mary  died  as  the  sun  was  sinking  behind  the  western  hills. 
Her  pure  spirit  had  fled  with  the  day ;  but  the  change  bore 
her  to  an  endless  day,  where  there  is  no  night  and  the  sun 
never  sets.  • 

Mabel  passed  a  sleepless  night.  Her  pillow  was  wet  with 
her  tears.  She  rose  in  the  morning,  and  hastened  to  gaze 
again  upon  the  form  of  Mary.  She  was  arrayed  for  the  grave, 
and  as  Mabel  bent  over  her,  and  printed  a  kiss  upon  the  pal- 
lid, cold  lips,  the  memories  of  the  past  rushed  vividly  into 
her  heart.  Her  eyes  rained  tears  upon  the  marble  beauty 
of  the  corpse. 


BEING    FLOWEBS.  81 

And  there  she  stood  for  an  hour  communing  with  the  days 
•which  Avere  now  no  more  ;  which  could  never  be  again,  be- 
cause the  heart  that  made  them  glad  was  now  still  in  death. 

The  formality  of  the  morning  meal  was  disposed  of,  —  it 
was  nothing  more  than  a  form  to  the  weeping  household,  — 
and  Mabel  returned  to  the  side  of  her  departed  sister.  She 
kissed  the  cold  lips  again,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  flood 
of  irresistible  grief  which  faithful  memory  forced  upon  her. 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss  Grant,"  said  one  of  the  neighbors,  who 
had  come  in  to  assist  the  family,  "  but  Miss  Barnes,  the 
dressmaker,  is  waiting  to  fit  your  dress." 

Her  dress  !  There  was  something  heartless,  cruelly  repul- 
sive in  the  word.  Her  dress  at  such  a  time  as  that !  Must 
she  leave  the  bier  of  her  dead  sister  to  converse  upon  the  de- 
tails of  a  garment  ?  Must  her  mind  abandon  the  thought 
of  the  dead  to  dwell  upon  the  fashion  of  a  dress  ? 

"Without  a  word  she  went  to  the  sitting  room.  It  was  a 
busy  scene  for  the  house  of  mourning,  and  she  learned  that 
the  mantuamaker  had  been  there  all  night,  for  the  weather 
was  warm,  and  the  funeral  must  take  place  on  the  following 
day. 

The  conversation  of  the  apartment  sounded  loathsome  to 
her.  It  was  not  of  her  dead  sister,  it  was  of  the  latest  fash- 
ions, of  the  propriety  of  this  and  that ;  the  fitness  of  one 
article  and  the  unfitness  of.  another. 

They  asked  her  how  she  would  have  her  dress  cut ;  but 
her  thoughts  were  with  Mary,  and  she  answered  not.  As 
soon  as  she  could  be  spared,  she  left  the  dressmakers,  and 
returned  to  the  chamber  of  the  dead. 

Again  she  wandered  back  with  Mary  to  the  scenes  of  their 
happy  childhood.  Again  the  tears  flowed  freely  Jown  he* 


82  BBING    FLOWEBS. 

cheeks,  and  the  spirit  of  the  loved  one  seemed  to  speak  to 
her  from  the  heaven  to  which  she  had  ascended. 

"  The  milliner  has  come,  and  wants  to  try  on  your  bon- 
net,"  said  the  servant  girl. 

Mabel  attended  the  summons  and  returned.  Her  grief 
was  too  deep  to  permit  her  to  participate  in  the  occupations 
of  the  sitting  room,  though  her  mother  was  compelled  to  be 
there,  and  had  been  there  all  night. 

"  Please  ma'am,  the  shopkeeper  has  come  over  with  some 
gloves,  and  they  want  you  to  pick  out  a  pair,"  said  the  girl 
again.  ' 

She  had  scarcely  disposed  of  this  matter  before  another 
demanded  her  attention  ;  and  thus  it  was  all  day  long.  The 
house  was  full  of  bustle  and  confusion.  The  tailor,  the  hat- 
ter, the  hosier,  and  a  score  of  female  artisans  were  constantly 
coming  and  going. 

The  solitude  which  her  weeping  heart  craved  was  denied 
her.  On  the  morrow  that  loved  form  was  to  be  borne  away 
and  placed  in  the  ground.  They  could  never  behold  it  again ; 
but  from  the  hour  that  Mary  had  breathed  her  last,  to  the 
arrival  of  the  funeral  guests,  she  heard  more  of  business,  of 
the  repulsive  details  of  dress  and  fashion,  than  of  those  more 
appropriate  words  which  solace  the  mourner  in  the  hour  of 
trial. 

The  mourning  garments  were  completed  ;  but  when  Mabel 
was  arrayed  in  them,  they  carried  no  comfort  to  the  heart. 
She  could  not  even  feel  that  the  wearing  of  them  was  a  token 
of  respect  to  her  dead  sister  ;  for  they  had  robbed  her  of  the 
blessed  privilege  of  weeping  over  her  bier. 

More  than  once  she  recalled  the  uncharitable  judgment 
she  had  passed  upon  the  Lawsons ;  but  they  had  been  priv* 


BEING    FLOWEBS.  83 

ileged  to  mourn  without  interruption  over  their  dead.  The 
course  they  had  chosen  was  reasonable  ;  and  she  could  not 
but  feel  that  if  the  heart  alone  were  consulted,  it  would  not 
weep  in  nodding  plumes  and  sable  weeds. 

Around  the  grave  of  Mary  the  devoted  sister  planted  the 
flowers  she  had  loved  so  well,  and  every  evening,  as  the  sun 
sank  away,  she  placed  a  fresh  bouquet  upon  the  green  sod 
above  her. 

And  close  by,  the  hand  of  affection  strewed  flowers  upon 
the  grave  of  Ellen  Lawson  ;  and  all  summer  long,  and  when 
the  chill  winds  of  autumn  swept  the  cemetery,  these  floral 
offerings  told  the  passer  bjfc  that  the  dead  were  remembered 
every  day. 

Bring  flowers  !  Scatter  them  upon  the  graves  of  the  dead ; 
for  they  are  a  far  more  grateful  tribute  to  the  memory  of  the 
departed  than  all  the  trappings  of  fashionable  woe  ! 


THE  ACADEMY'S  PKIZE. 

CHAPTER    I. 

M.  ST.  PIERRE  was  the  most  noted  artist  in  Paris,  and 
his  fame  extended  all  over  Europe.  His  studio  was  thronged 
with  students  from  every  country  on  the  continent.  To 
have  been  a  student  of  M.  St.  Pierre  was  a  passport  to  dis- 
tinction. 

Among  the  pupils  of  the  noted  master  were  two  young 
Frenchmen,  Jean  and  Paul  Murot.  They  were  cousins,  and 
M.  St.  Pierre  deemed  them  the  most  promising  of  all  the 
students.  They  were  about  equally  advanced  in  their  art. 
An  indifferent  critic  would  hardly  have  been  able  to  distin- 
guish the  works  of  one  from  those  of  the  other. 

But,  equally  endowed  as  they  were  in  that  genius  which 
makes  a  painter,  they  were  essentially  different  in  disposition 
and  character.  Jean,  the  elder,  was  cold,  dark,  and  re- 
vengeful, while  Paul  was  gentle  hearted,  kind,  and  forgiving. 

The  ladies  who  frequented  the  studio  of  the  great  master 
were  so  impartial  as  to  say  that  both  the  young  artists  were 
equally  well  endowed  in  the  attributes  of  personal  beauty. 
They  were  universal  favorites.  If  the  light  blue  eye  of  Paul 
seemed  to  exhale  a  profusion  of  smiles  from  his  very  heart, 
the  dark,  flashing  eye  of  Jean  spoke  a  soul  full  of  manly 
energy,  firmness,  and  decision. 

(84) 


THE   ACADEMY  8    PBIZE.  85 

M.  St.  Pierre  had  an  only  daughter,  Emilie  —  a  beautiful, 
eimple-hearted  maiden,  upon  whom  her  father  lavished  a 
world  of  endearments.  The  artist  had  a  soul  for  beaut  j  ; 
and,  if  there  had  been  no  natural  tie  to  bind  him  to  the  fair 
being,  his  soul  would  still  have  clung  to  her. 

Emilie  was  a  pupil  of  her  father,  and  as  earnestly  devoted 
to  her  art  as  even  the  master  himself.  By  the  throng  of 
students  with  whom  she  was  associated  she  was  almost  wor- 
shipped as  an  angel  of  light. 

Among  those  who  bowed  at  her^  shrine  were  Jean  and 
Paul  Murot.  They  were  both  inspired  by  the  genius  of  the 
art  she  loved,  and,  turning  from  the  mediocrity  of  the  mass, 
she  dwelt  with  interest  upon  their  lofty  productions. 

Both  loved  her ;  both  had  sought  to  win  her  heart,  to 
make  her  choose  between  them ;  but  Emilie  was  obstinate, 
and  refused  to  smile  more  upon  one  than  the  other.  Her 
heart  had  not  yet  been  touched  by  any  other  love  than  that 
of  the  divine  art. 

The  National  Academy  had  offered  a  most  magnificent  pre- 
mium for  the  best  picture  which  should  be  submitted,  before 
a  given  day,  by  the  students  of  Paris.  Jean  and  Paul  were 
both  competitors  for  the  prize.  For  months  they  labored 
and  studied  with  the  most  assiduous  devotion ;  for  he  who 
should  bear  off  the  prize  of  the  National  Academy  would 
already  have  won  a  fame  which  a  lifetime  might  not  ac- 
complish. 

M.  St.  Pierre  was  one  of  the  umpires.  From  him  Emilie 
learned,  with  an  unspeakable  satisfaction,  that  one  of  her 
favorites  was  sure  of  the  premium.  Her  father's  judgment 
to  her  was  infallible,  and  she  gloried  in  the  laurels  which 
were  to  be  worn  by  Jean  or  Paul. 
8 


86  THE  ACADEMY'S  PRIZE. 

One  day,  she  entered .  the  apartment  where  the  two  pupil* 
labored.  Jean  alone  was  there  ;  but  Paul's  picture,  sketched 
on  the  canvas,  nestled  on  its  easel. 

"  Jean,"  said  she,  smiling  sweetly  upon  him,  "  you  cannot 
both  win  the  prize." 

"  Perhaps  neither  of  us,"  responded  Jean,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Nay,  one  of  you  will ;  my  father  says  so,  and  he  knows 
the  ability  of  every  student  in  Paris." 

"  Said  he  so,  Emilie  ?  "  said  Jean,  smiling. 

«  He  did." 

"  But,  Emilie  —  beautiful  Emilie,"  said  Jean,  laying  down 
his  crayon,  and  fixing  a  tender  glance  upon  her,  "  there  is 
another  prize  we  have  both  sought  to  win." 

"  Another  prize  !  " 

"  One  worth  infinitely  more  than  that  the  National  Acad- 
emy has  offered." 

"  You  speak  in  enigmas,  Jean,"  said  she,  with  a  coquettish 
blush. 

"  Let  me  speak  plain,  then ;  I  mean  yourself,  beautiful 
Emilie,"  continued  Jean,  throwing  himself  at  the  feet  of  the 
fair  maiden. 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  Murot,  you  are  losing  your  brains  again ; 
pray  rise,"  answered  Emilie,  laughing. 

"  Nay,  Emilie,  I  have  not  lost  my  brains,  but  my  heart. 
I  love  you.  Without  you  the  prize  of  the  Academy  would 
be  worthless  to  me.  I  would  throw  myself  into  the  Seine, 
with  the  bawble  in  my  hand." 

"  You  are  extravagant,  Jean." 

"  Nay,  I  love  you  ;  bid  me  hope,  and  the  prize  is  mine  — 
the  prize  of  art  and  the  prize  of  beauty." 

"  And  Paul,  — he  loves  me  too,"  pleaded  Emilie,  smiling, 


THE  ACADEMY'S  PRIZE.  87 

**  Choose  between  us  ;  choose  him,  and  let  me  die.** 

"  No,  Monsieur  Murot,  you  will  not  die." 

"  I  swear  to  kill  myself  when  you  refuse  me." 

"  And  will  Paul  kill  himself,  too,  if  I  refuse  him  ?  "  said 
Emilie,  laughing  gayly  ;  for  she  seemed  not  to  regard  serious- 
ly the  ready  hyperbole  to  which  her  countrymen  are  addicted. 

"  Nay,  I  know  not,  Emilie  ;  I  will  challenge  him.  One 
of  us  shall  die,  that  your  choice  may  be  made." 

"  Fie,  Monsieur  Murot ;  if  you  do,  the  survivor  shall 
never  see  my  face  again." 

"  Cruel  Emilie  !" 

"  But,  Jean,  I  will  decide ;  I  love  you  both.  He  who 
wins  the  prize  of  the  Academy  shall  win  my  hand  and  heart 
with  it." 

"  Hist !     Here  is  Paul." 

"  He  shall  know  all." 

The  fair  girl  then  related  to  Paul  Murot  the  substance  of 
the  conversation  that  had  just  transpired.  He,  too,  had  de- 
clared his  love  to  Emilie,  and  entered  the  lists  with  even 
more  willingness  than  Jean  had  evinced. 

"  Bless  you,  Emilie,"  said  he ;  "  we  shall  both  strive  to 
win  the  prize." 

The  brow  of  Jean  darkened  as  he  saw  the  mild,  soft  eye 
of  Paul  fixed  lovingly  upon  the  peerless  maiden. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE  period  allotted  for  the  completion  of  the  pictures  had 
passed  away.  Jean  and  Paul  were  putting  the  finishing 
touches  to  their  productions,  and  the  reart  of  each  beat  high 


88  THE  ACADEMY'S  PKIZE. 

with  hope.  The  laurel  wreath  of  fame  was  almost  within 
their  grasp,  and  the  heart  and  hand  of  the  most  beautiful 
maidon  in  Paris  was  also  to  be  the  guerdon  of  the  victor. 

Paul  was  sad  —  sad  because  both  could  not  be  equally  for- 
tunate. The  most  lively  friendship  had  always  subsisted 
between  them ;  at  least,  the  heart  of  Paul  was  sincere,  and 
that  of  Jean  appeared  to  be  so.  But  the  gentle-hearted 
student  grieved  to  think  that  his  own  success  might  be  the 
herald  of  Jean's  discomfiture  —  that  it  would,  perhaps, 
mar  his  prospects  for  life,  and  forever  imbitter  his  existence. 

As  he  gazed  with  affectionate  interest  upon  the  canvas 
from  which  his  genius  spoke  like  the  tongue  of  an  angel,  he 
could  not  help  thinking  of  poor  Jean,  if  his  own  picture 
should  be  the  successful  one.  Forgetful  of  self,  the  thought 
of  marring  some  of  the  fine  effects  of  his  painting  occurred 
to  him,  that  he  might  win  the  happiness  of  seeing  his  friend 
the  victor  in  the  lists. 

A  single  stroke  of  the  pencil  across  that  gorgeous  tint  of 
summer  sky,  one  dash  over  that  striking  contrast  of  light 
and  shade,  one  touch  over  the  reflected  light  on  the  trunk  of 
that  English  oak,  would  utterly  disqualify  it  to  compete  with 
tb-e  glowing  wealth  of  Jean's  production. 

With  an  impulsive  energy,  he  grasped  the  pencil,  and 
moistened  it  with  color  from  the  palette.  It  seemed  like  a 
sacrilege  to  mar  the  beautiful  work  ;  but  the  happiness  of 
Jean  was  in  his  hand,  and  he  raised  the  pencil  to  impart  the 
Vandal  touch. 

His  hand  dropped.  Ah,  Paul,  know  you  not  that  you  are 
sacrificing  the  fair  Emilie  ?  that  you  are  shutting  yourself 
out  from  the  treasures  of  a  paradise  ? 

Paul  could  not  do  it.     The  love   of  Emilie  could  not  be 


THE  ACADEMY'S  PRIZE.  89 

given  up  —  no,  not  even  for  Jean.  Had  the  prize  of  the 
Academy  been  all  there  was  at  stake,  Paul  had  had  the 
courage  to  make  him  the  victor. 

Throwing  down  the  pencil  with  an  impatient  gesture, -ag 
though  he  was  ashamed  of  his  own  selfishness,  he  left  the 
apartment  just  as  Jean  entered  it. 

The  dark  eye  of  the  student  kindled  as  he  glanced  first 
upon  his  own  picture  and  then  upon  that  of  Paul.  The  try- 
ing hour  of  his  lifetime  had  come.  He  should  either  be 
lifted  to  the  pinnacle  of  distinction,  and  win  the  hand  of 
Emilie,  or  be  plunged  into  the  abyss  of  disappointment.  It 
was  a  vast  chasm  that  yawned  between  success  and  failure, 
and  he  had  no  patience  to  look  upon  the  darker  side  of 
the  event. 

If  he  failed,  there  was  nothing  in  life  worth  living  for, 
and  again  he  glanced  at  the  painting  of  Paul. 

A  single  daub  would  ruin  it  —  would  insure  him  the  hand 
of  Emilie  and  the  coveted  prize.  It  was  a  thought  born 
of  the  devil ;  but  Jean's  heart  was  black  enough  to  har- 
bor it. 

It  was  nearly  dark,  and  to-morrow  would  decide  his  fate. 
He  took  up  the  pencil. 

Black-souled  Jean  !  Couldst  thou  have  read  all  that 
passed  through  the  heart  of  thy  friend  an  hour  before,  the 
devils  within  thee  had  grappled  with  thy  soul ! 

He  advanced  to  Paul's  picture  ;  but  the  entrance  of  two 
artisans,  who  had  come  to  prepare  the  pictures  for  transpor- 
tation, defeated  his  purpose  —  nay,  only  delayed  it.  Bid- 
ding the  artisans  defer  their  task  till  morning,  he  left  the 
room. 

He  had  scarcely  gone  before  M.  St.  Pierre  and  Em- 
8* 


90  THE    ACADEMY  S    PRIZE. 

ilie  entered  the  studio  to  see  the  paintings  of  the  stu- 
d  jnts. 

"  Ah,  my  father,  Jean  has  won  the  prize,"  said  the  fai/ 
maiden. 

"  Nay,  Emilie,  the  evening  light  falls  unfavorably  upon 
Paul's.  Let  us  change  them,  and  you  will  see  the  effect." 

The  master  changed  the  position  of  the  two  paintings, 
placing  Paul's  before  the  window  where  Jean's  had  stood. 
The  pictures,  though  not  identical,  were  similar.  A  large 
tree  occupied  the  foreground  in  each. 

"  You  are  right,  my  father,  and  poor  Paul's  hope  is  not 
yet  blasted." 

The  master  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"  Paul  has  been  nervous,"  said  he,  at  last,  with  a  sigh. 

Poor  Emilie !  How  her  heart  grieved  for  the  gentle- 
hearted  student ! 

The  shades  of  night  had  gathered  when  Jean  reentered 
the  studio.  It  was  too  dark  to  distinguish  objects  ;  but  the 
heart  of  Jean  was  also  black,  and  he  groped  about  for  the 
pencil. 

Standing  opposite  Paul's  picture,  he  endeavored  to  distin- 
guish its  outlines.  Only  the  great  tree  in  the  foreground 
could  be  dimly  made  out  by  the  light  of  a  back  window,  near 
which  it  stood. 

With  remorseless  hand,  he  drew  the  brush  across  the 
trunk  of  the  tree  ;  and  the  beautiful  light  reflected  from  a 
golden  cloud  which  was  the  crowning  glory  of  the  picture, 
—  across  that  he  drew  the  pencil,  and  the  labor  of  Paul  was 
ruined  ! 

With  a  cloth  he  wiped  down  the  canvas,  so  as  to  remove 
the  evidences  of  an  intentional  daub,  and  left  the  room. 


THE  ACADEMY'S  PHIZE.  91 


CHAPTER     III. 

THE  board  of  umpires  was  still  in  session.  It  was  whis- 
pered through  the  mansion  of  M.  St.  Pierre  that  a  decis- 
ion had  been  made,  and  that  it  lay  between  Jean  and  Paul 
Murot,  as  every  body  had  expected  ;  but  no  one  knew  which 
was  the  fortunate  artist. 

"  The  picture  of  one  has  been  thrown  out  because  it  is 
disfigured,"  continued  the  bedrer  of  the  news. 

"  Thrown  out !    Mon  Dieu  !  "  exclaimed  Jean. 

"  Thrown  out !  "  repeated  Paul,  bewildered  with  astonish- 
ment. 

Perfidious  Jean  !  How  his  black  heart  leaped  at  the  pros- 
pect of  the  victory!  The  stern  judges  had  not  troubled 
themselves  to  inquire  into  the  origin  of  the  defacement  of 
Paul's  picture,  and  he  was  safe.  Already  he  congratulated 
himself  on  folding  the  beautiful  Emilie  to  his  heart,  and  call- . 
ing  her  all  his  own. 

Poor  Paul !  The  tears  trickled  down  his  cheek  as  he 
thought  of  the  disappointment  that  awaited  one  of  them. 
Treading  down  the  selfishness  which  he  had  combated  unsuc- 
cessfully on  the  previous  night,  he  even  hoped  that  it  might 
be  his  own  which  had  been  rejected. 

But  ah,  there  stood  Emilie,  beautiful  as  an  angel.  She 
was  silent,  for  she,  too,  felt  that  -the  present  was  an  eventful 
moment. 

How  could  the  painting  have  been  disfigured  ?  Poor, 
gentle-hearted  thing !  She  dreamed  not  of  the  villany  that 
had  been  perpetrated.  She  knew  not  that  the  heart  of  one 


92  THE   ACADEMY.  S   PRIZE. 

of  her  Covers  was  as  Hack  as  a  demon's.  If  Jean  was  the 
winner, 'she  knew  not  to  what  wicked  arms  she  would  be 
consigned. 

But  Jean  felt  that  the  victory  was  his.  He  only  knew 
that  it  was  Paul's  picture  that  was  rejected,  and  he  could 
hardly  refrain  from  revealing  the  abundant  joy  that  filled  hia 
mind. 

The  arrival  of  M.  St.  Pierre  awakened  the  silent  group 
from  their  lethargy. 

"  Ah,  my  father,  who  has  won  the  prize  ?  "  exclaimed 
Emilie,  breathless  with  anxiety,  while  a  crimson  blush  suf- 
fused her  beautiful  features. 

"  It  lay  between  Jean  and  Paul,"  replied  the  master. 

"  But  which,  my  father  ?  " 

"  Nay,  Emilie,  I  hardly  dare  say." 

"  Speak,  M.  St.  Pierre,"  said  Paul.  "  I  can  bear  disap- 
pointment." 

"  So  can  I,  my  master,"  added  Jean. 

"  One  of  the  pictures  was  sadly  disfigured." 

"  Mon  Dieu !  how  could  it  happen !  "  exclaimed  Jean. 

"  Indeed,  I  know  not ;  but  the  majority  of  the  umpires 
decided  that  it  was  done  by  carelessness,  and,  against  my 
earnest  remonstrance,  threw  the  picture  out  of  the  competi- 
tion." 

"  How  unfortunate  !  "  said  Emilie,  deeply  grieved. 

"  It  was,  since  I  am  confident  it  would  otherwise  have  won 
the  prize." 

Jean's  heart  leaped  when  he  thought  how  prudent  he  had 
been  in  wantonly  ruining  Paul's  picture.  If  his  conscience 
had  been  less  scrupulous,  Paul  had  been  the  victor ! 

"  Here  is  the  award,  Emilie ;  you  shall  read  it,"  contin- 


THE  ACADEMY'S  PKIZE.  93 

ued  M.  St.  Pierre,  giving  her  a  roll  of  parchment,  and  leaving 
the  room. 

Emilie,  with  trembling  hand,  unrolled  the  parchment. 

Jean  stood  firm,  while  Paul  trembled  with  emotion. 

"  Award  to  Paul  Murot  "^  continued  she,  reading. 

"  To  Paul  Murot !  "  shoifted  Jean,  staggering  forward 
with  amazement,  and  clutching  the  parchment. 

With  quivering  lip,  he  gazed  at  the  fatal  words. 

"  Hell  and  furies ! "  exclaimed  he,  while  his  dark  eye 
flashed  with  anger,  "  this  is  wrong." 

Emilie  and  Paul  started  back,  shrinking  from  the  fury  of 
the  disappointed  student. 

"  Jean  is  right ;  there  is  some  mistake,"  said  Paul. 

"  There  is  no  mistake,"  replied  M.  St.  Pierre,  reentering 
the  room.  "  Jean's  was  thrown  out  for  being  carelessly 
daubed." 

"  Was  it  mine  that  was  thrown  out  ?  "  said  Jean,  wildly. 

"  It  was  ;  your  name  was  upon  it.    How  was  it  defaced  ?  " 

"  I  know  not." 

"  Last  night  it  was  in  perfect  condition  when  Emilie  and 
myself  visited  the  studio.  I  was  sure  then  that  you  would 
be  the  victor ;  but,  to  form  a  better  judgment,  I  changed  the 
position  of  the  pictures,  so  as  to  get  a  different  light  upon 
Paul's." 

"  You  changed  them  !  "  gasped  Jean,  staggering  to  a  chair. 

"  I  did.     Are  you  ill,  Jean  ?  " 

Jean  had  daubed  his  own  picture  ! 

He  was  ill ;  a  fever  laid  him  at  death's  door,  and  remorse 
extorted  a  confession  of  his  villany. 

Emilie  became  the  bride  of  Paul  Murot.  His  painting 
that  won  the  Academy's  prize  and  the  beautiful  wife  he  still 
adores  hangs  in  the  Louvre. 


THE  DOMESTIC  ELEMENT. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  JULIA  has  been  to  the  public  schools  long  enough,"  said 
Mrs.  Mason  to  her  husband.  "  She  is  fifteen  years  old,  and 
I  am  sure  she  can  learn  nothing  more  till  she  is  sent  to  a 
boarding  school." 

"  Nonsense  ! " 

"•  Besides,  Mrs.  Benson's  daughter  has  left,  and  Julia  don't 
want  to  go  any  longer." 

"  Let  her  stay  at  home  then." 

"  Stay  at  home  !  Don't  you  mean  she  shall  have  any 
polish  ? " 

"  Can't  you  polish  her,  my  dear  ?  "  asked  the  easy  hus- 
band, with  a  good-natured  smile. 

"  How  absurdly  you  talk  !  " 

"  Why,  my  dear,  you  have  got  quite  polish  enough  for  the 
wife  of  a  small  merchant.  I  would  not  give  a  copper  to 
have  you  any  more  of  a  lady  than  you  are." 

"  But  Julia  may  be  the  wife  of  a  rich  man ;  what  would 
she  be  then  without  music,  French,  and  painting  ?  " 

"  And  she  may  be  the  wife  of  a  poor  mechanic,  and  these 
accomplishments  be  useless  and  burdensome." 

"  She  never  shall  be  the  wife  of  a  mechanic  if  I  can  help 
t,"  retorted  Mrs.  Mason,  smartly. 

(94) 


THE    DOMESTIC    EXEMENT.  9& 

"  Fie,  Mary ;  you  are  unreasonable.  Why  should  she 
look  higher  than  a  mechanic,  especially  as  some  of  our  best 
and  most  reputable  men  are  mechanics  ?  " 

"  She  shall  not  be  the  wife  of  a  mechanic  if  I  can  help 
it,"  repeated  the  lady. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  She  shall  do  better,  and  that  is  the  reason  why  I  want 
her  better  educated." 

"  She  may  do  worse.  What  are  we,  my  dear,  that  we 
need  look  among  the  nabobs  for  a  husband  for  our 
daughter  ?  " 

"  Are  you  not  a  merchant  ?  " 

"  Only  a  small  shopkeeper." 

"  Well,  that's  a  merchant ;  and  I  mean  Julia  shall  marry 
a  merchant." 

Mr.  Mason  yielded  the  point,  and  agreed  that  Julia  should 
marry  whomsoever  she  and  her  mother  might  choose. 

"  But  she  must  be  educated  for  her  future  station." 

"  True,  she  must." 

"  She  must  go  to  a  boarding  school,  and  learn  French, 
music,  painting,  and  German." 

"  And  Chinese,"  interposed  Mr.  Mason. 

"  She  must  learn  all  the  fashionable  things." 

"  I  believe  English  grammar,  writing,  and  arithmetic  are 
not  in  fashion." 

"  Pooh !  she  knows  all  about  these  things." 

"  I  asked  her  to  tell  me  how  many  bushels  of  potatoes  a 
wagon  seven  feet  long  by  four  wide  and  three  high  would 
contain,  and  she  could  not  make  the  first  figure  towards  it." 

"  I  suppose  there  was  no  such  question  in  her  book." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  and  she  could  not  tell  me  where  Seva»- 


96  THE    DOMESTIC    ELEMENT. 

topol  was  —  whether  it  was  in  China  or  the  Sandwich 
Islands." 

"  How  foolish  you  are  !  I  think  likely  she  never  hap- 
pened to  see  the  place  on  the  map." 

"  And  that  letter  she  wrote  to  her  uncle  was  such  horrible 
grammar  that  I  was  ashamed  to  send  it." 

"  No  matter  for  that ;  she  understands  grammar  very 
well." 

"  May  be  she  does ;  but  she  has  an  awkward  way  of 
showing  it.  I  suppose  washing,  cooking,  and  baking  are 
not  fashionable  either." 

"  There  it  is  again." 

"  I  think  you  would  do  better  by  her  if  you  took  her 
into  the  kitchen,  and  taught  her  these  things.  If  she  hap- 
pens to"  marry  a  poor  man,  they  will  be  of  some  service 
to  her." 

"  Time  enough  for  these  things." 

"  Well,  well,  do  as  you  please ;  but  I  am  opposed  to 
boarding  schools ;  I  think  they  do  more  harm  than  good." 

"  That's  just  like  you  !  Opposed  to  boarding  schools  ! 
Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  They  spoil  more  young  ladies  than  they  ever  benefit." 

"  How  in  the  world  can  it  spoil  them  ?  " 

"  Home  is  the  place  for  girls.  The  first  thing  they  should 
be  taught  to  love  is  the  fireside ;  they  ought  never  to  be 
weaned  from  it  by  sending  them  away  to  undergo  monastic 
discipline  in  a  boarding  school." 

"  How  foolish !  " 

"  It  gives  them  bad  habits  —  makes  them  romantic  —  fills 
their  silly  heads  with  moonshine  ;  and  if  you  send  Julia,  ten 
to  one  she  will  run  away  with  some  bearded  puppy.' 


THE   DOMESTIC    ELEMENT.  97 

But  it  was  no  kind  of  use  for  Mr.  Mason  to  argue  with, 
his  wife  on  such  a  topic  as  this ;  she  was  bent  on  sending 
Julia  to  the  boarding  school.  He  was  a  man  of  peace,  and, 
rather  than  make  a  tempest,  he  withdrew  from  the  combat. 


CHAPTER    II. 

JULIA  MASON  did  not  possess  a  very  brilliant  intellect. 
Nature  had  never  intended  her  for  a  "  blue  stocking,"  and, 
live  as  long  as  she  might,  there  was  no  probability  that  she 
would  ever  become  even  a  "  strong-minded  woman."  She 
had  for  many  years  attended  one  of  the  public  schools,  but 
had  never  risen  above  the  second  class,  and  the  master  did 
not  believe  she  ever  would. 

Yet,  for  all  this,  Julia  was  a  good-hearted,  generous,  whole- 
souled  girl.  What  Nature  had  neglected  to  place  in  her 
head,  she  had  beneficently  put  in  her  heart.  She  had  a  nice, 
womanly,  domestic  temperament,  was  quiet  and  unobtrusive 
in  her  manners,  and^ without  doubt,  if  no  pains  had  been 
taken  to  spoil  her,  would  have  made  somebody  a  very  loving 
if  not  a  very  brilliant  wife. 

She  was  a  little  disposed  to  be  romantic  and  sentimental 
—  would  have  fed  well  and  thriven  on  moonshine  —  a  tem- 
perament which  requires  a  great  deal  of  prudent  manage- 
ment on  the  part  of  the  parent  or  guardian. 

Julia  went  to  the  boarding  school ;  but  she  had  not  been 
th«re  three  weeks  before  she  wrote  to  her  mother,  begging 
her  to  take  her  away,  or  she  declared  she  should  ceitain- 
ly  die. 

The  poor  girl  was  homesick.  Monastic  discipline  was  an 
9 


98  THE   DOMESTIC   ELEMENT. 

outrage  upon  her  affectionate,  domestic  nature.  She  had 
been  accustomed  to  spend  her  evenings  by  the  fireside  at 
home,  -with  her  parents  and  younger  brother  and  sisters; 
and  it  was  a  sad  deprivation  to  her  to  be  driven,  at  the  stroke 
of  a  bell,  into  her  chamber  at  seven  o'clock,  there  to  sit  in 
painful  silence  with  her  roommate,  and  study  her  lesson. 
She  was  not  a  genius,  and  she  hated  study ;  it  was  uncon- 
genial in  the  highest  degree. 

At  nine  o'clock,  at  the  stroke  of  the  bell,  she  must  retire, 
and  in  fifteen  minutes  her  light  must  be  put  out,  or  a  black 
mark  was  made  against  her  name  on  the  following  day  ;  and 
so  it  was  all  day  long,  week  in  and  week  out.  Her  exist- 
ence was  odiously  mechanical.  Her  life  was  regulated  by 
that  everlasting  stroke  flf  the  bell.  She  was  obliged  to 
do  every  thing  by  rule  —  eat,  drink,  sleep,  study,  play,  walk, 
by  rule. 

It  was  unnatural,  and  her  soul  cried  out  within  her  against 
such  monstrous  formality.  She  could  not  learn,  her  heart 
grieved  so  under  the  repulsive  mechanism  of  her  existence. 
Even  the  music  lesson,  which  she  had  anticipated  with  the 
liveliest  pleasure,  was  gloomy  and  distasteful.  She  was  con- 
scientious, and,  though  her  companions  laughed  at  her  for  it, 
she  at  first  paid  the  most  implicit  obedience  to  the  rules  of 
the  institution.  Her  roommate  devised  various  happy  ex- 
pedients for  relieving  the  tedium  of  their  lives  ;  but  she 
refused  to  avail  herself  of  them. 

Her  mother  begged  her  to  persevere  for  a  time,  assuring 
her  that  she  was  only  homesick  —  a  disease  which  a  few 
weeks  would  effectually  cure.  She  did  persevere ;  but  her 
"  chum "  finally  succeeded  in  overcoming  her  conscientious 
•cruples,  and  the  evenings,  instead  of  being  passed  in  study, 


THE    DOMESTIC    ELEMENT.  99 

were  devoted  to  a  "  good  time  generally."  It  is  true,  Julia 
got  innumerable  black  marks  for  failures  in  her  recitations  ; 
but  the  horrible  bugbears  soon  became  so  familiar  that  they 
ceased  to  have  any  terrors.  Before  the  first  term  had  ex- 
pired, she  had  so  completely  weaned  herself  from  her  domes- 
tic memories  that  home  had  lost  all  its  charms. 

She  had  learned  a  great  many  "  new  tricks."  Indeed,  the 
preceptor,  in  his  report  to  her  parents  at  the  close  of  her  first 
term,  felt  it  his  duty  to  say  that  her  conduct  had  not  been 
altogether  satisfactory.  She  had  gone  to  the  boarding 
Bchool  the  quietest  person  in  the  world  ;  she  returned  a 
romp,  her  head  full  of  strange  notions  about  lovers,  and 
her  heart  as  washy  as  the  moonshine  in  her  head. 

On  the  first  evening  after  her  return  home  she  insisted  on 
going  to  the  opera ;  the  second  to  a  concert ;  the  third  to 
the  theatre ;  the  fourth  to  a  lecture  ;  the  fifth  to  a  party ; 
the  sixth  to  a  conference  meeting ;  and  so  on  every  evening. 

"  What  in  the  world  has  got  into  you,  Julia  ?  You  did 
not  use  to  be  fond  of  '  kiting '  round  in  this  manner,"  said 
the  astonished  Mrs.  Mason. 

"  O^mother,  it  is  so  insufferably  dull  at  home  !  Besides, 
it  is  not  fashionable  to  stay  at  home  in  the  evening,"  drawled 
Julia. 

"  What  has  got  into  you  ?  " 

"  Boarding  schools,"  said  Mr.  Mason. 

"  I  should  die  of  ennui  to  stay  at  home  an  evening,"  con- 
tinued the  daughter,  with  a  languishing  sigh. 

"  You  had  better  give  her  a  lesson  on  the  pots  and  kettles 
now,"  interrupted  Mr.  Mason. 

"  O  papa,  how  cruel  you  are !  Pray  go  to  the  opera 
with  me." 


100  THE    DOMESTIC    ELEMENT. 

Mr.  Mason  was  an  indulgent  papa,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
go ;  but  he  could  not  help  wondering  what  Julia  would 
finally  come  to  if  she  was  permitted  to  go  on  in  this  manner 


CHAPTER    III. 

JULIA  returned  to  the  boarding  school,  and,  in  spite  of 
the  weak  efforts  of  her  father  to  avert  the  fashionable  fate 
that  awaited  her,  she  continued  there  for  nearly  two  years. 
In  music  and  painting  she  made  rapid  progress  ;  but  in  lit- 
erature and  science  she  failed  to  make  even  a  decent  pro- 
ficiency. 

She  was  an  altered  creature.  She  was  vain,  affected,  ro- 
mantic, and  transcendental,  cherishing  all  sorts  of  visionary 
notions  about  life,  and  especially  about  lovers  and  husbands, 
who  filled  a  long  space  in  her  daily  meditations.  She  had 
lost  her  domestic  nature,  and  that  was  the  saddest  loss  of  all. 
Her  heart  was  not  actually  corrupted  ;  but  it  was  so  buried 
up  in  the  weeds  of  vanity  and  folly  that  its  gentle  influence 
was  almost  entirely  lost  upon  her  life  and  character.  If  not 
unsexed,  she  had  lost  that  hold  upon  woman's  sphere  which 
confers  her  chief  charm  in  society.  She  was  a  creature  for 
the  ball  room  and  the  opera,  and  not  for  the  quiet  shades 
of  home. 

Perhaps  a  boarding  school  does  not  always  make  such  sad 
havoc  in  the  mind  and  heart  of  the  young  female  ;  but  such 
is  the  tendency  of  its  artificial  manner  of  existence.  Monas- 
tic discipline  spoils  woman  ;  it  removes  her  from,  and  unfits 
her  for,  her  social,  domestic  position. 

When  the  two  years  had  nearly  expired,  Mr.  Mason  one 


THE   DOMESTIC    ELEMENT.  101 

day  received  a  letter  from  the  principal  of  the  seminary,  con- 
taining the  astounding  intelligence  that  Julia  had  eloped 
with  a  young  gentleman  who  had  come  from  the  city  on  a 
visit  in  the  neighborhood. 

"  The  grand  finale  of  the  drama,"  said  Mr.  Mason,  throw- 
ing the  letter  to  his  wife. 

"  Good  Heaven  !  who  is  this  Mr.  Winchel  ?  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Mason,  when  she  had  read  the  letter. 

"  A  son  of  Winchel,  the  merchant  in Street." 

"Rich?" 

"Yes." 

"  Thank  God  it  is  no-  worse  ! "  replied  Mrs.  Mason,  so  far 
relieved  that  a  pleasant  smile  played  upon  her  lips. 

A  few  days  after,  Julia  and  her  husband  presented  them- 
selves at  the  home  of  her  father.  They  were  received  with 
open  arms.  Mrs.  Mason  was  too  much  pleased  with  the 
match  to  make  a  fuss  about  it,  and  Mr.  Mason  followed  his 
wife's  "  lead." 

A  few  weeks  after,  they  were  comfortably  settled  in  a 
pleasant  house  ;  for  Mr.  Winchel,  who  had  some  very  clearly 
defined  aspirations  for  the  quiet  joys  of  a  fireside  of  his  own, 
insisted  upon  going  to  housekeeping  instead  of  boarding. 

This  kind  of  life  was  novel  to  Julia,  and  for  the  first  six 
months,  while  her  husband  consented  to  take  her  every 
evening  to  the  opera,  a  ball,  party,  or  concert,  she  was  toler- 
ably contented. 

But  Mr.  Winchel  got  sick  of  such  an  incessant  round  of 

amusement,  and  sighed  for  that  paradise  of  home  which'  his 

imagination  had  years   ago  painted.     He  reasoned  with  his 

giddy  wife ;  but  she  hated  home,  and  reproached  him  for 

9* 


102  THE   DOMESTIC    ELEMENT. 

attempting  to  imprison  her  in  the  house,  and  thus  make  her 
life  miserable. 

Mr.  Winchel  was  firm,  and  positively  refused  to  go  to  any 
more  operas,  balls,  parties,  or  concerts. 

Julia  was  forced  to  accede  to  his  reasonable  desires ;  but 
home,  even  in  the  presence  of  her  husband,  had  become  an 
intolerable  place.  Indeed,  the  romance  of  a  husband  had 
worn  itself  away.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  in  the 
most  natural  way  in  the  world,  and  had  proposed  to  wait 
upon  her  father,  and  arrange  the  preliminaries  for  their  mar- 
riage ;  but  Julia  was  not  content  to  be  united  to  him  in  such 
a  tame  manner  as  that,  and  insisted  upon  an  elopement. 
Her  lover  gratified  her  —  to  his  sorrow,  he  now  discovered. 

Julia  was  unhappy.  Her  husband,  disgusted  at  her  folly, 
returned  to  the  club  he  had  abandoned  when  he  married  her, 
leaving  her  to  comfort  or  amuse  herself  as  best  she  might. 
And  she  found  comfort  and  amusement  in  the  society  of  a 
gay  and  dashing  Lothario,  who  consoled  her  for  her  hus- 
band's absence  by  making  love  to  her.  It  was  not  long 
before  the  world  was  again  astonished  by  the  publication  of 
an  elopement  —  not  a  harmless,  sentimental  affair,  but  a 
criminal  elopement. 

Julia  was  too  romantic  to  consider  the  moral  turpitude  of 
the  act.  The  pious  preaching  and  praying  of  the  boarding 
school  had  been  lost  upon  her  in  the  variety  of  more  con- 
genial topics  that  were  there  presented  to  her.  The  elope- 
ment was  romance  ;  she  thought  not  of  the  crime. 

Mr.  Mason  and  his  wife  were  in  the  deepest  distress.  Mr. 
Winchel  called  at  her  father's  store,  and  stated  the  particu- 
lars of  their  domestic  experience.  It  was  plain  to  both  that 


THE    DOMESTIC    ELEMENT.  103 

the  distaste  for  home  was  traceable  to  the  loss  of  the  do- 
mestic element  of  the  misguided  wife. 

Julia  and  her  seducer  —  we  wrong  him  —  both  were  guil- 
ty—  were  heard  from  in  New  Orleans  ;  but  the  villain  soon 
became  tired  of  her  whims,  and  left  her,  and  she  died  a  few 
years  later,  a  ruined,  abandoned,  off-cast  creature,  the  vic- 
tim of  a  false  education. 

Mr.  Mason's  remaining  daughters  were  not  sent  to  the 
boarding  school.  They  received  the  best  education  to  be 
had  in  the  city,  and  there  are  noted  institutions  of  learning 
there.  They  were  thus  kept  constantly  under  the  watchful 
care  of  their  parents,  and  the  domestic  element  in  their  na- 
tures was  not  unsettled  by  absence  from  home  while  the 
plastic  mind  was  being  moulded  into  its  shape  for  life. 


"BANG    UP!" 

OB, 

THE     EESULTS     OP     A  D  V  E  B  T  l!3  I  N  G. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  ANY  thing  over,  Ben  ?  " 

"  Not  a  dollar  ;  I  just  paid  the  Journal's  bill  for  advertis- 
ing, which  has  pretty  much  cleaned  me  out." 

"  How  much  ?  " 

"  Forty-two  dollars  and  twenty-five  cents." 

*'  Ben,  I  don't  like  to  tell  you  that  you  are  the  biggest 
fool  on  the  street ;  but  you  are." 

"  Wait,  Joe,  and  see,"  returned  the  other,  with  a  confi- 
dent smile. 

"  Forty-two  dollars  for  advertising  !  " 

"  Just  so,  and  for  three  months'  advertising." 

The  applicant  for  "  any  thing  over  "  gave  a  peculiar  whis- 
tle to  define  the  length,  breadth,  and  depth  of  his  astonish- 
ment. 

This  conversation  occurred  in  the  store  of  Benjamin  Wes- 
ton,  a  young  and  enterprising  merchant,  who  had  just  com- 
menced business  on  his  own  account.  The  other  person, 
who,  to  use  his  own  classic  expression,  was  "  bang  up,"  and 

(104) 


BANS   UP.  105 

wanted  to  borrow  fifty  dollars  to  make  up  the  amount  of  a 
note  due  that  day,  was  Joseph  Weston,  a  cousin  of  the  other. 
They  had  been  playmates  in  youth  and  stanch  friends  in 
maturity.  Though  there  was  a  great  diversity  of  opinion  on 
many  topics,  a  strong  sympathy  existed  between  them. 

They  had  commenced  business  at  about  the  same  time, 
and  under  nearly  the  same  circumstances,  both  being  obliged 
for  the  want  of  sufficient  capital  to  mortgage  the  stock  in 
their  respective  stores. 

Thus  far  they  had  done  well,  and  the  prospect  was,  that 
both  would  become  wealthy  and  distinguished  merchants. 

They  had  married  sisters,  and  occupied  tenements  in  the 
same  block.  Their  houses  were  furnished  in  substantially 
the  same  style,  and  with  no  material  difference  of  expendi- 
ture. Both  had  been  brought  up  to  business  habits,  ana 
educated  into  the  principles  of  a  rigid  economy. 

"  Forty-two  dollars  for  advertising,"  repeated  Joe. 

"  And  if  I  had  the  money  to  spare,  I  would  spend  double 
that  sum,"  replied  Benjamin. 

"  What  benefit  do  you  expect  to  realize  from  it  ?  " 

"  You  are  behind  the  times,  Joe.  Benefit !  What  a  ques- 
tion !  I  expect  to  make  my  fortune  by  it." 

"  Humbug ! " 

"  Look  at  Brandreth  and  Swaim." 

"  Both  humbugs." 

"  No  matter  for  that ;  if  these  fellows  have  been  able  to 
make  princely  fortunes  by  advertising  humbugs,  how  much 
more  so  will  he  who  deals  in  substantial  realities  ! " 

"  All  gammon  !  " 

"  We  differ  ;  time  will  tell  who  is  in  the  right." 

"  Seriously,  Ben,  you  will  ruin  yourself  if  you  go  on  i» 


106  BANG   TIP. 

this  manner.  Forty-two  dollars  a  quarter  for  advertis- 
ing !" 

"  I  shall  spend  a  hundred  the  next  quarter." 

"  Don't  do  it,  Ben." 

"  How  does  it  happen,  Joe,  that  you  are  in  the  street  bor- 
rowing money  ?  I  never  did  such  a  thing  since  I  commenced 
business." 

"  How  does  it  happen,  Ben,  that  you  haven't  got  any 
money  to  lend  ? "  asked  Joe,  with  a  smile. 

"  Because  I  spent  it  in  advertising." 

«'  Better  have  spent  it  for  opera  and  2  :  40's." 

"  "Wait,  Joe,  wait." 

**  I  spent  nothing  for  advertising  ;  but  I  will  bet  you  the 
oysters  my  sales  for  the  last  quarter  are  as  large  as  yours." 

"  I  will  take  you  up  on  the  next  quarter." 

"  Why  not  the  last  ?  " 

"  Advertising  is  somewhat  like  planting  potatoes ;  you 
must  wait  for  the  crops." 

"  Don't  believe  in  it,  Ben.  When  I  have  a  fifty  spot  that 
I  don't  know  what  to  do  with,  I  shall  put  it  into  my  family. 
Buy  a  library,  a  new  sofa,  or  something  of  that  sort.  I 
should  rather  go  to  the  White  Mountains  with  it,  than 
throw  it  away  upon  newspapers." 

"  You  don't  know  your  own  interest,  Joe." 

"  Don't  I  ?  Some  kinds  of  business  might  thrive  on  ad- 
vertising ;  but  ours,  never.  Do  you  believe  the  women  look 
in  the  newspapers  before  they  go  shopping  ?  " 

"  Well,  there  was  a  lady  in  here  just  now,  who  said  she 
saw  such  and  such  goods  advertised  by  me." 

"  Pshaw !  and  on  the  strength  of  that  you  intend  to  spend 
fifty  dollars  more  in  advertising  !  Ben,  you  are  crazy ; " 


BA.NQ    UP.  107 

and  Joseph  Weston  turned  upon  his  heel  and  left  the  store, 
assured  in  his  own  mind  that  his  friend  was  going  to 
ruin. 

In  his  estimation  such  loose  principles  would  eventually 
bring  him  to  bankruptcy.  But  Ben  was  his  friend,  and  he 
deeply  commiserated  him  because  he  clung  to  such  weak  and 
pernicious  doctrines. 


CHAPTER    II. 

BUSINESS  prospered  with  the  young  men.  By  prudent 
and  careful  management,  each  had  not  only  made  a  living, 
but  had  been  able  to  pay  a  small  portion  of  the  mortgage  on 
the  stock,  at  the  end  of  the  first  year. 

Joseph  had  the  advantage  of  his  friend  in  possessing  a 
Detter  location,  and  though  his  rent  was  somewhat  higher, 
the  difference  was  more  than  compensated  by  the  increased 
facilities  it  afforded  him.  The  prospect  was  decidedly  brig*ht 
to  him.  If  his  business  increased  as  it  had  done,  he  would 
be  enabled  to  clear  himself  of  debt  in  another  year. 

Under  this  encouraging  aspect  he  ventured  to  expend  a 
hundred  dollars  in  additions  to  his  furniture,  which  his  wife 
insisted  was  absolutely  necessary  for  their  comfort  and  hap- 
piness. The  house  had  been  furnished  altogether  too  plain 
for  this  progressive  age,  in  her  estimation.  She  was  behind 
some  of  her  friends,  who,  she  was  sure,  were  doing  no  bet- 
ter than  her  husband. 

Joseph  was  a  little  obstinate  at  first ;  but  then  there  was 
something  so  decidedly  comfortable  in  a  set  of  stuffed  chairs 
and  a  lounge,  that  he  did  not  hold  out  in  his  opposition. 


108  BANG   TTP. 

He  was  doing  well,  and  the  expenditure  would  not  seriously 
embarrass  him. 

With  a  nice  new  Brussels  carpet  and  the  new  furniture, 
Mrs.  Weston' s  little  parlor  looked  exceedingly  pleasant  and 
comfortable.  Besides,  it  looked  as  though  her  husband  was 
prospering  in  his  business. 

It  was  so  very  nice  that  the  young  wife  could  not  bear  the 
idea  of  having  the  parlor  shut  up,  so  that  no  one  should  see 
it  till  the  furniture  had  grown  rusty ;  consequently  she  made 
up  her  mind  that  they  must  have  a  party. 

Their  friends  had  parties ;  why  shouldn't  they  ?  It  looked 
stingy  not  to  have  one.  Mrs.  Weston  was  an  eloquent  de- 
bater, and  she  gained  the  day  in  this  matter.  It  is  true  the 
party  was  not  a  very  extravagant  affair ;  but  it  cost  Joe  some 
fifty  dollars.  In  the  mean  time  Benjamin  had  paid  quite  as 
much  for  advertising  as  his  friend  had  for  new  furniture  and 
the  party.  Joseph  laughed  at  him,  and  finally  came  to  be- 
lieve that  he  was  insane,  and  would  certainly  come  to  ruin 
within  another  year. 

Mrs.  Ben  Weston,  too,  felt  decidedly  unpleasant  about  the 
improvements  which  had  been  going  on  in  her  sister's  house. 

"  Why  can't  we  have  a  rosewood  table  and  a  set  of  stuffed 
chairs,  Benjamin  ?  "  asked  she,  pouting  her  pretty  lips  into 
a  very  unamiable  position. 

"  Simply,  my  dear,  because  I  cannot  afford  it,"  replied  the 
philosophical  merchant. 

"  How  can  Joe  afford  it  ?  " 

"  I  presume  he  knows  his  own  business  best." 

"  He  has  put  over  a  hundred  dollars  into  his  house." 

Ben  whistled  "T'other  Side  of  Jordan,"  and  made  no 
reply. 


BANG    UP.  108 

"  Do,  Ben,  buy  some  new  chairs." 

"  Can't  afford  it." 

"  Yes,  you  can." 

"  No,  I  can't." 

"  You  can  afford  it  as  well  as  Joe." 

"  Perhaps  I  can." 

"  Do  buy  some." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  gratify  you,  but  I  cannot  take 
the  money  from  my  business.  A  year  hence,  if  business 
prospers  with  me,  you  shall  have  them." 

"  A  year  henco,"  pouted  the  wife. 

"  I  must  spend  a  hundred  dollars  in  advertising  the  next 
quarter." 

"  How  foolish  !  " 

"  Very  foolish,  my  dear ;  but  it  must  be  done." 

"  That's  the  way  you  throw  your  money  away.  You  don't 
catch  Joe  to  do  such  a  trick  as  that." 

"  True ;  but  though  he  has  the  advantage  of  having  a 
corner  store,  I  paid  three  hundred  dollars  more  on  my  mort- 
gage note  than  he  did." 

"  Then  you  can  afford  the  table  and  chairs." 

"  Nay,  my  dear,  I  will  not  spend  a  dollar  for  superfluities 
while  I  am  in  debt." 

Mrs.  Ben  Weston  felt  very  bad  about  it,  but  her  husband 
was  firm,  and  she  was  forced  to  content  herself  with  the 
plain  furniture. 

Mrs.  Joe  Weston  enjoyed  her  nice  parlor  till  the  novelty 
wore  away,  and  then  she  discovered  that  there  were  a  great 
many  other  articles  wanted  to  make  things  look  uniform. 
The  two  windows  must  have  drapery  curtains,  a  pier  glass 
was  needed,  and  some  pictures  were  wanted  to  relieve  the 
10 


HO  BANQ   UP. 

walls.  Her  husband,  who  had  once  exceeded  the  limits  of 
his  means,  found  no  great  difficulty  in  doing  so  again,  and 
the  things  were  hought. 

But  Joe  had  some  scruples  about  it.  His  notes  began  to 
be  troublesome,  and  every  day  he  was  in  the  street  borrow- 
ing money.  His  business,  too,  had  not  met  his  expectations. 
Instead  of  increasing  in  the  ratio  of  his  first  year's  experi- 
ence, it  hardly  held  its  own,  and  the  poor  fellow  began  to 
have  some  serious  misgivings  about  the  future. 

Before  the  year  had  half  expired,  he  was  obliged  to  intro- 
duce a  rigid  system  of  retrenchment  into  his  family  and  busi- 
ness affairs,  in  order  to  keep  his  expenses  within  his  means. 


CHAPTER    III. 

ANOTHER  year  had  passed  away  in  the  business  experi- 
ence of  the  young  merchants.  The  books  had  been  balanced, 
and  the  results  stood  in  black  and  white  before  them. 

Ben  had  followed  up  his  system  of  advertising  through 
the  year.  He  had  expended  large  sums,  but  had  made  the. 
outlay  with  judgment  and  discretion. 

The  result  exceeded  his  most  sanguine  expectations.  His 
store  was  crowded  with  customers  ;  with  genuine,  lona  fide 
customers,  and  with  but  a  small  proportion  of  gadders  and 
fancy  shoppers.  The  newspapers  had  borne  to  the  best  fam- 
ilies in  the  city  and  country  full  descriptions  of  his  stock. 
His  name  was  as  familiar  as  "household  words"  in  the 
dwellings  of  the  rich  and  poor,  of  the  farmer,  the  mechanic, 
and  the  laborer. 

Truly,  the  harvest  was  abundant,  and  Ben  rubbed  his 


BANG   UP.  Ill 

hands  with  delight  as  he  cast  his  eyes  over  the  figures  which 
conveyed  to  him  the  pleasing  results  of  his  year's  operations. 
He  had  the  means,  not  only  of  clearing  himself  of  deht,  hut 
also  of  gratifying  his  wife  hy  giving  her  all  the  new  furni- 
ture she  required,  hesides  a  handsome  surplus  with  which  to 
increase  his  business. 

The  new  furniture  was  bought  and  set  up  ;  every  debt  was 
discharged,  and  the  importers  and  jobbers  were  eager  to  give 
him  unlimited  credit. 

One  day,  while  he  was  ruminating  upon  this  pleasant  state 
of  things,  Joe  Weston  entered  the  store.  For  some  months 
past,  the  intercourse  between  the  young  merchants  had  not 
been  as  cordial  as  formerly.  Joe's  nice  things  had  rather 
"  set  him  up  ;  "  some  of  the  upper  ten  had  condescended  to 
visit  him  ;  and  he  had  attended  the  "  Almack  "  parties  with 
his  wife. 

He  was  getting  ahead  fast  in  his  own  estimation,  and  cher- 
ished a  supreme  contempt  for  the  slow  motion  of  his  friend. 
But  when,  in  the  middle  of  the  year,  he  found  himself  run- 
ning down  hill,  and  discovered  that  Ben's  store  was  crowded 
with  shoppers,  while  his  own  was  empty,  a  feeling  of  envy 
took  possession  of  him.  Ben  must  be  underselling,  he  con- 
cluded, and  sooner  or  later  the  consequences  would  ap- 
pear. 

The  prosperous  merchant  could  not  but  notice  the  sad  and 
dejected  mien  of  his  friend,  as  he  entered  the  store. 

"  How  are  you,  Joe  ?  You  are  almost  a  stranger,  lately. 
Where  do  you  keep  yourself?  "  said  Ben. 

"  Business,  Ben  ;  business  !  "  replied  Joe,  demurely. 

"  Good  !     Business  before  pleasure." 

"  Any  thing  over  to-day  ?  "  asked  Joe;  but  the  query  wag 


112  BANG   TIP. 

not  put  in  that  buoyant,  elastic  tone,  which  had  distinguished 
him  in  former  times. 

"  A  trifle ;  how  much  do  you  want  ?  "  returned  Ben, 
promptly. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  '  bang  up.'  1  have  got  a  note 
of  four  hundred  to  pay,  and  I  have  not  •  yet  raised  the  first 
dollar  towards  it." 

"  You  are  late ;  it  is  half  past  one  now,"  replied  Ben, 
consulting  his  watch. 

"  Ben,  I  am  in  a  tight  place,"  said  Joe,  in  a  low,  solemn 
tone. 

"  Indeed !  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  and  Ben's  face  wore  an. 
expression  of  sincere  sympathy.  "  Nothing  serious,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  so." 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  and  the  young  merchant  took 
down  his  check  book,  and  examined  the  state  of  his  bank 
account. 

"  I  can  give  you  a  check  for  three  hundred,  if  that  will  do 
you  any  good,"  continued  he,  taking  up  the  pen  to  fill  out 
the  blank. 

"  Thank  you,  Ben ;  you  are  very  kind  ;  but  I  don't  know 
as  I  ought  to  take  it." 

"  Not  take  it !    Why  not  ?  " 

"  If  I  should  pay  this  note,  there  is  hardly  a  possibility 
that  I  could  get  through  the  month." 

"  So  bad  as  that  ?     Ton  my  soul,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"  Smith  and  Jones  advise  me  to  make  an  assignment." 

"  How  does  it  happen  ?    I  thought  you  were  doing  well  ?  " 

"Business  has  been  very  dull  for  the  last  six  months. 
Haven't  you  found  it  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  no  ;  it  has  been  driving  with  me." 


BANG    tTP.  113 

Q 

Joe  knew  it  had  ;  indeed,  his  present  visit  was  not  to 
borrow  money,  but  to  prepare  his  friend  for  the  "  smash," 
which  was  now  unavoidable. 

"  My  sales  have  been  light,"  continued  he ;  "I  can't  ac- 
count for  it." 

"  I  can ;  look  here,  Joe." 

Ben  took  down  his  leger,  and  pointed  to  the  account 
"  Charges,"  where  the  sums  paid  for  advertising  had  been 
entered.  On  a  slip  of  paper  he  had  footed  them  up. 

"  Five  hundred  and  sixty-five  dollars  for  advertising,  Joe ! 
That's  what  did  the  business." 

Joe  was  astonished.  It  was  quite  as  much  as  he  had  paid 
for  fine  things  for  his  house,  and  for  parties,  and  the  opera ; 
but  the  investment  had  been  vastly  more  profitable,  inasmuch 
as,  taken  in  connection  with  his  careful  management  of  his 
business  and  his  economical  manner  of  living,  it  had  laid 
the  foundation  of  his  future  fortune.  It  had  given  him  a 
good  start  in  business,  and  a  good  beginning  is  half  the 
battle. 

Joe  Weston  failed,  and  paid  only  twenty  cents  on  a  dol- 
lar. His  fine  furniture  was  all  sold,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
board  out.  But  in  his  extremity  Ben  was  his  true  friend. 
He  received  him  into  his  house,  and  when  his  business  was 
settled  up,  took  him  into  partnership. 

The  firm  is  now  one  of  the  most  respectable  and  prosper- 
ous in  the  city.  Joe,  ever  since  he  was  "bang  up,"  believes 
in  advertising,  and  any  one  who  opens  the  Journal,  or,  in- 
deed, any  of  the  daily  papers,  cannot  fail  to  notice  the  con- 
spicuous advertisement  of  "  Weston  &  Co." 
10* 


THE  NEW   CLOAK; 

OB, 

"MIND  YOUR  OWN  BUSINESS." 

CHAPTER    I.  .i? 

"  THERE  !  I  declare,  if  Mrs.  Burton  hasn't  got  a  new 
cloak !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Waxwell  to  her  intimate  friend, 
Miss  Viney,  as  they  came  out  of  church  one  Sunday. 

"  I  see  she  has,"  replied  Miss  Viney,  very  quietly. 

"  I  know  her  husband  can't  afford  it ;  she  will  be  the  ruin 
of  him  yet." 

"  I  suppose  they  know  their  own  business  best.  At  any 
rate,  it  is  a  blessing  that  you  and  I  are  not  accountable  for 
her  misdeeds,"  said  Miss  Viney,  who,  though  what  is  tech- 
nically termed  an  "  old  maid,"  was  not  of  that  class  who 
have  been  slanderously  styled  gossips  and  busybodies ;  and 
we  have  purposely  introduced  her  to  refute  the  foul  calumny 
that  "  old  maids  "  are  all  meddlers,  and  we  are  sure  th'at  all 
spinsters  will  be  grateful  to  us  for  the  service. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  returned  Mrs.  Waxwell,  with 
a  dubious  shake  of  the  head.  "  Mr.  Burton  owes  my  hus- 
band three  hundred  dollars,  and  I  don't  believe  he  will  ever 
get  his  pay  if  things  go  on  in  this  way.  That  cloak  couldn't 
have  cost  less  than  thirty  dollars." 

(114) 


THE    NEW    CLOAK.  115 

'*  I  presume  they  could  afford  it,  or  they  would  not  have 
bought  it.  At  any  rate,  they  ought  to  know  best." 

"Mrs.  Burton  is  a  vain,  conceited,  proud  woman,  and 
pride  will  have  a  fall  one  of  these  days." 

"  I  hope  not." 

"  I  hope  she  will  have  a  fall ;  she  would  drop  some  of 
those  airs  then." 

*'  I  never  thought  she  was  what  might  be  termed  a  vain 
woman." 

"  She  is  ;  she  is  an  impudent  minx,  and  the  sooner  she  is 
brought  down  to  a  level  with  her  circumstances,  the  better 
for  her  and  the  world." 

"  She  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  very  kind-hearted  per- 
son and  an  excellent  neighbor." 

"  I  don't  care  if  she  has ;  she  likes  to  '  lord '  it  through 
the  village,  and  for  one  I  won't  be  ruled  by  her." 

"  Really,  I  do  n'ot  understand  you ;  she  is  as  amiable  and 
humble  as  any  one  need  be." 

"  Amiable  and  humble  indeed !  What  did  she  buy  that 
new  cloak  for  except  to  excite  the  envy  of  half  the  town, 
and  make  them  think  she  is  somebody  ?  " 

"  I  hope  there  is  no  one  so  silly  as  to  envy  her ; "  and 
Miss  Viney  cast  a  significant  glance  full  into  the  face  of  her 
companion. 

"  I  don't,  for  one ;  but  I  should  like  to  teach  her  that  she 
is  no  better  than  the  rest  of  the  world." 

"  She  don't  profess  to  be ;  she  visits  the  neighborhood ; 
and  I'm  sure  there  is  no  better  person  in  sickness  than 
she  is." 

"  All  that  may  be." 


116  THE  NEW  CLOAK. 

"  When  you  had  the  erysipelas,  you  remember  she  watched 
with  you  when  no  one  else  would." 

"I  know  it;  but  is  one  to  be  tyrannized  over  forever 
because  she  watched  a  few  nights  with  me  ?  " 

"  How  strange  you  talk  !  " 

"  Do  I  ?  Didn't  she  buy  that  cloak  on  purpose  to  cut  a 
figure  through  the  town,  and  make  every  body  feel  cheap  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  sure  she  did  not ;  she  had  no  such  motive," 
replied  Miss  Viney,  smartly. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  there  !  " 

"  She  is  not  such  a  woman  as  that." 

"  Yes,  she  is,  just  such  a  woman  as  that." 

"  I  have  seen  no  one  but  you  who  feels  bad  about  it." 

"  But  me  !  Lor'  sake !  I  wouldn't  have  you  think  I  feel 
bad  about  it.  She  can  wear  what  she's  a  mind  to  for  all  me ; 
only  I  hope  she  can  afford  it  —  that's  all." 

"  I  think  she  can  ;  she  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  pretty 
careful  woman." 

"  I  don't  care ;  but  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  warn  my  husband 
to  look  out  about  his  debt.  When  folks  get  to  be  so  awful 
extravagant,  there's  no  knowing  what  may  happen." 

"  Mr.  Burton  is  doing  a  very  good  business,  people  say." 

"  Nobody  knows  any  thing  about  what  he  is  doing.  All 
I  know  is,  that  when  Squire  Smith  sold  him  two  cords  of 
wood  last  week,  and  carried  in  the  bill,  he  couldn't  pay  it. 
He  actually  put  the  squire  off  till  next  week.  That  looks  as 
though  they  could  afford  thirty  dollar  cloaks,  don't  it  ?  " 

With  these  sage  reflections,  Mrs.  Waxwell  turned  down 
the  lane  that  led  to  her  home,  leaving  Miss  Viney  to  pursue 
her  way  and  ponder  the  extravagance  of  "  s^me  folks." 


THE   NEW  CLOA.K."1  117 


CHAPTER    II. 

MBS.  WAX  WELL  loved  fine  clothes  quite  as  much  as  any 
other  woman  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  this  is  saying  a 
great  deal ;  but  then  her  husband  was  parsimonious,  and  she 
was  parsimonious  ;  and,  though  she  loved  "  nice  things  " 
very  much,  she  loved  money  more,  which,  we  take  it,  amounts 
to  nothing  more  nor  less  than  meanness. 

Mr.  Waxwell  was  a  farmer,  and  well  off  in  the  world. 
The  advent  of  the  railroad  into  his  native  town  had  turned 
things  topsy-turvy  in  general,  and  "put  the  devil  into  the 
women  "  in  particular,  to  use  Mr.  "Waxwell's  classic  language. 
Time  was  when  they  were  content  to  wear  a  straw  bonnet 
and  a  calico  gown  to  meeting ;  but  now  they  had  to  rig  out 
in  silks  and  satins,  with  flounces  and  furbelows,  and  all  sorts 
of  rigging  hitched  to  'em,  for  all  the  world  just  like  a  clown 
in  the  circus.  Such  were  Mr.  Waxwell's  views  of  the  social 
influence  of  the  railroad. 

Society  began  to  be  a  little  "  select ;  "  folks  put  on  airs, 
and  were  so  "  stuck  up  "  that  you  couldn't  touch  them  with 
a  ten  foot  pole. 

Farmer  Waxwell  did  not  much  like  this  state  of  things ; 
it  cost  money  on  the  one  hand,  and  he  did  not  like  to  be 
thrown  into  the  shade  on  the  other.  He  was  about  the  rich- 
est man  in  the  place  ;  but  ten  dollar  bonnets  and  thirty  dol- 
lar cloaks  were  abominations  that  he  could  not  tolerate. 
Mrs.  Waxwell  didn't  like  to  be  outdone  in  the  matter  of 
dress,  and  when  she  bought  a  new  merino  cloak  the  previous 
•eason,  she  had  not  a  doubt  but  it  would  be  unsurpassed  for 


118  THE   NEW   CLOAK. 

two  seasons  at  least.  When  Mrs.  Burton  came  out  with 
the  thirty  dollar  velvet,  she  found  the  wind  was  taken  en- 
tirely out  of  her  sail,  and  she  was  as  indignant  as  the  case 
demanded. 

In  the  rise  and  progress  of  the  village  since  the  advent  of 
the  railroad,  two  new  stores  had  gone  into  operation,  one  of 
which  was  conducted  by  Mr.  Burton,  an  enterprising  young 
man  from  the  metropolis,  who  had  brought  a  city  wife  and  a 
great  many  city  notions  into  the  place  with  him. 

As  with  a  great  many  who  go  from  the  city  to  the  country, 
he  was  exceedingly  annoyed  by  that  disinterested,  charitable 
attention  to  other  people's  business  which  so  extensively  pre- 
vails in  many  rural  districts.  He  kept  his  affairs  to  himself, 
and  this  bothered  and  perplexed  the  gossips.  His  wife  had 
a  way  of  attending  to  her  own  concerns ;  .she  had  been 
brought  up  where  people  do  not  even  know  their  next  door 
neighbors.  If  she  wanted  a  new  dress  or  a  new  bonnet,  she 
never  deemed  it  necessary  to  consult  the  neighbors  in  re- 
gard to  her  ability  to  afford  it,  or  about  the  style  and 
material. 

But,  in  spite  of  these  peculiarities,  she  was  a  popular  per- 
son in  the  village.  She  was  amiable  and  kind  to  all,  a  friend 
and  a  comforter  to  the  sick,  and  quite  a  useful  person  in  the 
society  of  the  place.  She  understood  matters  and  things,  had 
a  larger  experience  of  the  world  than  those  who  had  seen 
nothing  of  it ;  and  the  consequence  was,  that  when  a  party 
was  to  be  given,  a  picnic  projected,  or  a  ball  got  up,  she  waa 
consulted,  and  her  advice  followed.  She  understood  all  these 
things,  and  was  happy  to  explain  the  "  fashion  "  in  "egard  to 
them  to  all  who  asked  her  counsel. 

Poor  Mrs.  Waxwell !     Her  star  began  to  decline  when 


THE   NEW   CLOAK.  119 

Mrs.  Burton  came  to  the  village.  She  was  no  longer  the 
leader  of  the  ton,  and  her  heart  was  bursting  with  envy. 
Though  she  had  often  received  the  kind  offices  of  the  store- 
keeper's wife,  both  in  sickness  .and  in  health,  she  would 
willingly  have  crushed  her.  That  new  cloak  was  the  cap- 
sheaf  of  the  indignities  which  she  fancied  had  been  heaped 
upon  her,  and  she  determined  that  her  unconscious  rival 
should  suffer  the  consequences  of  her  temerity. 

Her  first  demonstration  was  upon  her  husband,  whom  she 
found  no  difficulty  in  convincing  that  Mr.  Burton  must  be 
ruined  by  the  extravagance  of  his  wife,  and  that,  unless  he 
immediately  collected  his  debt,  he  would  certainly  lose  it. 

As  soon  as  she  had  done  her  washing  on  Monday,  she 
"  made  some  calls,"  and  embraced  the  opportunity  of  com- 
menting freely  upon  that  new  cloak.  The  women  told  their 
husbands  that  Mr.  Burton  would  certainly  fail ;  and  before 
three  days  had  elapsed  there  was  quite  a  ferment  in  the 
place. 

Nobody  knew  any  thing  about  Mr.  Burton's  affairs ;  he 
seemed  to  be  doing  a  good  business,  though  no  one  knew  of 
his  having  any  money.  He  did  not  even  own  the  house  in 
which  he  lived  ;  he  had  no  property,  apparently,  but  his 
stock.  The  careful  old  farmers,  to  whom  in  the  course  of 
trade  he  had  become  indebted  for  produce  which  he  sent  to 
Boston,  began  to  be  alarmed  by  these  rumors. 

It  was  in  the  State  of  New  Hampshire ;  and  at  the  time 
of  which  I  write,  the  "  grab  law  "  was  in  force,  and  is  still, 
for  aught  I  know. 

One  morning,  as  Mr.  Burton  returned  from  a  journey  to  a 
neighboring  town,  he  found  his  stock  attached  on  the  claim 
of  Fanner  Waxwell,  and  all  on  account  of  that  new  cloak 


120  THE   NEW   CLOAK. 

•which  his  wife  had  worn  to  meeting  on  the  preceding 
Sunday. 

He  had  not  the  means  to  pay  the  note  at  that  moment, 
and  while  he  was  considering  a  plan  to  extricate  himself  from 
the  dilemma,  the  news  that  his  goods  had  been  attached 
spread  all  over  the  place.  All  the  creditors  were  in  hot 
haste  to  follow  the  track  of  Fanner  Waxwell ;  for  it  was 
"  first  come,  first  served,"  and  in  less  than  two  hours  a  dozen 
had  fastened  upon  the  stock  of  his  store. 

This  was  a  tremendous  result  to  follow  in  the  train  of  a 
thirty  dollar  cloak  and  a  gossiping  old  woman. 


CH'APTER    III. 

"  WHAT  do  you  think  now,  Miss  Viney  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Waxwell,  as  they  met,  soon  after  the  storekeeper's  disaster 
had  been  made  public. 

"  I  hope  Mr.  Burton  will  be  able  to  pay  his  debts." 

"  But  he  won't  —  I  know  he  won't." 

"  Probably,  if  they  had  given  him  any  notice  of  their  in- 
tention to  demand  the  payment  of  their  claims,  he  would 
have  been  prepared  to  meet  them." 

"  I  guess  Mrs.  Burton  will  not  feel  quite  so  stuck  up  after 
this." 

"  I  hope  you  have  done  nothing  to  bring  about  this  sad 
result." 

"  But  I  have ;  I  made  my  husband  sue  his  note,  and  when 
he  put  on,  the  others  did.  Thirty  dollar  cloak  indeed !  " 

"  I  am  sorry  you  have  done  this  ;  you  may  ruin  Mr.  Bur- 
ton by  it." 


THE    NJSW    CLOAK.  121 

"  That's  just  what  I  mean  to  do  ! "  and  Mrs.  Wax-well's 
malignant  expression  betrayed  the  jealousy  she  had  so  long 
harbored. 

"  You  did  ?  It  was  very  unkind  and  ungrateful  in  you  to 
do  so,"  replied  Miss  Viney,  indignantly. 

"  Humph !  " 

"  Any  trader  would  be  likely  to  come  out  badly  to  hav« 
all  his  creditors  pounce  upon  him  without  jjiving  him  a 
chance  to  collect  his  debts." 

"  I  don't  believe  he  has  any  to  collect." 

"  Even  your  husband,  as  well  off  as  he  is,  might  be  em  • 
barrassed  if  suddenly  called  upon  to  pay  his  debts  ;  "  and 
Miss  Viney  looked  significantly  at  her  angry  companion. 

"  I  doubt  it." 

"  He  may  have  a  trial,"  said  the  maiden  lady,  as  she 
moved  towards  the  store. 

"What  can  she  mean  by  that?"  thought  Mrs.  Waxwell. 

Miss  Viney  had  some  property  of  her  own,  and  it  was  all 
in  the  hands  of  Farmer  Waxwell,  who  had,  on  his  own  ac- 
count, invested  the  greater  part  of  it  in  railroad  stock. 

This  is  what  she  meant.  She  would  claim  the  three  thou- 
sand dollars  her  husband  owed  her,  and  a  cold  chill  passed 
through  her  veins  as  the  thought  struck  her.  Farmer  Wax- 
well  was  rich  in  houses,  lands,  and  stocks,  all  of  which 
yielded  him  a  good  income ;  but  he  had  not  three  thousand 
dollars  in  money,  and  it  might  cost  him  some  trouble  to 
raise  it. 

"  Don't  cry,  my  dear ;  I  have  enough  due  me  in  Boston  to 
pay  these  debts  ten  times  over,"  said  Mr.  Burton  to  his  wife, 
who  was  much  alarmed  by  the  storm  which  threatened  them. 
11 


122  THE   NEW    CLOAK. 

"  What  will  people  think  ?  " 

"  What  will  they  think  when  I  pay  them  all  ?  The  whole 
amount  is  not  above  nine  hundred  dollars." 

Just  then  Miss  Viney  entered  the  house.  In  a  few  words, 
she  explained  the  circumstances  which  had  led  to  the  sudden 
"strike"  among  the  creditors. 

Mrs.  Burton,  kind  soul,  shed  a  flood  of  tears  when  she 
heard  how  cruel  Mrs.  Waxwell  had  been  —  she  whom  she 
had  nursed  with  all  the  tenderness  of  a  mother  when  her 
frightened  neighbors  fled  from  the  contagious  disease. 

"  Never  mind  it,  my  dear.  We  may  expect  any  thing 
from  a  meddler,  a  gossip,  a  slanderer,"  said  Mr.  Burton.  "  I 
must  start  for  Boston  in  the  noon  train." 

"  Allow  me,  Mr.  Burton,  to  offer  you  the  money  to  dis- 
charge these  liabilities.  I  have  three  thousand  dollars  in 
the  hands  of  Mr.  Waxwell." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  and  I  accept  your  offer,"  replied  Mr. 
Burton,  "  and  next  week  I  shall  have  the  means  of  repaying 
you.  I  assure  you  I  am  worth  at  least  five  thousand  dol- 
lars." 

In  proof  of  his  assertion,  he  showed  her  various  notes, 
mortgages,  and  certificates  of  stock. 

"  I  presume,  if  the  people  here  knew  that  I  was  not  a 
bankrupt,  they  would  not  have  molested  me.  In  spite  of  all 
my  amiable  neighbor,  Mrs.  Waxwell,  may  say,  I  think  I  ai» 
abundantly  able  to  give  my  wife  a  thirty  dollar  cloak." 

"  I  never  doubted  it,"  replied  Miss  Viney,  as  she  hastene* 
to  the  village  lawyer  to  put  her  note  in  course  of  col- 
lection. 

Farmer  Waxwell  was  at  dinner  when  the  lawyer,  who  wai 
a  personal  friend,  called  upon  him. 


THE    NEW   CLOAK.  123 

"  Sorry  to  trouble  you,  but  I  am  instructed  to  collect  this 
note,"  said  he. 

"  The  devil !  "  exclaimed  Farmer  Waxwell. 

"  The  ugly  hussy  !  "  added  Mrs.  Waxwell,  as  she  per- 
ceived that  Miss  Viney's  prophetic  words  had  been  burdened 
with  a  meaning. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,"  said  the  lawyer  ;  "  but  if  I 
understand  it  rightly,  you  have  publicly  boasted  that  you 
brought  about  all  this  difficulty." 

"I?" 

"  Yes,  madam ;  that  new  cloak  did  the  business.  You 
set  your  husband  on,  and  all  the  rest  followed  him ;  so  Miss 
Viney  tells  me." 

"  My  gracious  !  " 

"  And  now  she  wants  the  money  to  assist  Mr.  Burton  out 
of  the  difficulty  into  which  you  have  plunged  him." 

"  That's  plain  speech,  squire,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  But  true." 

"  I  can't  raise  the  money." 

"  Then  I  must  sue." 

"  Can't  we  compromise  ?  " 

"  Burton  is  worth  at  least  five  thousand  dollars,  and,  when 
he  gets  a  remittance  from  Boston,  will  pay  all." 

"  I  will  dissolve  my  attachment,  and  be  bound  for  tho 
payment  of  the  others.  Will  that  do  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  Miss  Viney  will  consent." 

Miss  Viney  did  consent,  —  she  was  a  kind-hearted  lady 
—  and  the  matter  was  compromised. 

"  Now,  wife,"  said  Farmer  Waxwell,  on  the  following 
week,  as  he  put  the  three  hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket 
which  Burton  had  paid,  minus  thirty  which  he  held  in  hii 


124  THE   NEW   CLOAK. 

hand,  "  here's  thirty  dollars,  and  I  think  you'd  better  go  and 
buy  one  of  them  'ere  cloaks.  Your  foolish  envy  like  to 
have  got  me  into  the  cu'sedest  scrape  I  ever  got  into  in 
my  life." 

She  would  not  take  it ;  she  was  too  mean  to  dress  well 
nerself,  and  too  envious  to  permit  others  who  were  able  to 
ao  so  in  peace.  But  she  gathered  from  the  events  of  our 
story  a  healthy  experience  of  the  wisdom  of  that  excellent 
maxim  —  "MiND  TOUS  OWN  BUSINESS." 


"EVERY  THING   COMFORTABLE." 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  You  have  every  thing  comfortable,  Maria,"  said  Mrs. 
Belladonna  Buttercup,  to  her  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Sparrow, 
at  whose  house  she  was  making  a  visit ;  "  every  thing  com- 
fortable" 

The  speaker  placed  a  very  significant  emphasis  upon  the 
last  word,  which,  in  connection  with  her  peculiar  tone  of 
voice,  and  the  half  apparent  sneer  on  her  lips,  was  equiva- 
lent to  saying,  "  You  have  all  that  is  absolutely  necessary  to 
make  your  house  habitable ;  you  have  beds,  and  chairs,  and 
tables,  but  your  furniture  is  of  the  most  ordinary  descrip- 
tion —  plain,  cheap,  and  old-fashioned.  It  would  not  suit 
me." 

Mrs.  Belladonna  Buttercup  was  a  New  York  lady ;  that 
is  to  say,  she  had  formerly  been  a  shop  girl  in  Boston,  and, 
having  considerable  talent  at  diplomacy,  had  captivated  the 
senses  of  a  dry  goods  clerk  on  four  hundred  dollars  salary, 
become  Mrs.  Buttercup,  and  moved  to  New  York.  She  was 
an  ambitious  person,  and  though  she  had  been  brought  up 
in  a  ten  footer  in  an  obscure  street,  she  earnestly  desired  to 
become  what  is  technically  called  a  "  lady."  Fashion  was 
her  god.  To  dress  well,  to  live  in  a  fine  .house,  furnished 
11*  (125) 


126  EVERT  THING  COMFORTABLE. 

d  la  mode,  and  to  move  in  fashionable  society  constituted 
her  highest  ideal  of  human  happiness. 

Mr.  Buttercup  entertained  similar  views.  It  is  true,  he 
was  only  a  poor  clerk  when  he  married,  —  he  had  married  to 
redeem  his  wife  from  the  drudgery  of  her  occupation,  —  and 
when  he  went  to  New  York  he  had  a  hard  struggle  to  sup- 
port her,  even  in  a  five  dollar  boarding  house.  At  the  end 
of  a  year,  circumstances  so  favored  him  that  he  was  enabled 
to  go  into  business  on  his  own  account.  In  a  small  shop, 
which  his  former  employer  stocked  for  him,  taking  a  mort- 
gage with  interest  at  the  rate  of  twenty  per  cent,  per  annum, 
he  rushed  boldly  into  the  stream,  assured  it  would  bear  him 
to  opulence  and  an  influential  position  in  society. 

Fortune  favored  him,  and  the  first  year  showed  a  gain  of 
a  thousand  dollars.  The  young  man  was  elated,  and  having 
lived  within  his  means,  he  had  a  considerable  surplus  on  his 
hands.  Taking  a  larger  store  and  employing  two  additional 
clerks,  he  commenced  his  second  year.  He  was  the  biggest 
man  on  Broadway  ;  talked  magnificently  about  his  business 
operations,  and  innocently  magnified  his  last  year's  profits 
to  five  thousand  dollars.  Things  looked  so  promising  with 
him  that  the  importers  and  jobbers  gave  him  all  the  credit 
he  desired.  Mr.  Buttercup  was  perfectly  satisfied  that  he 
was  on  the  high  road  to  fortune.  As  Richelieu  says  in  the 
play,  there  was  no  such  word  as  "  fail  "  in  his  vocabulary. 

Of  course,  a  five  dollar  boarding  house  could  no  longer  be 
tolerated,  and  to  Mrs.  Buttercup's  inexpressible  satisfaction, 
her  husband  engaged  a  room  in  a  fashionable  establishment 
"up  town."  It  was  only  one  room,  and  Mr.  B.  had  con- 
tracted to  pay  twenty  dollars  a  week  for  it,  washing  and 


EVEJ1Y    THIXG    COMFORTABLE.  127 

*'  sundries  "  extra.  The  ambitious  lady  went  a  shopping  a 
few  days  after,  and  contrived  to  get  rid  of  a  hundred  dollars, 
which  the  complacent  shopkeeper  in  an  impulsive  moment 
had  placed  in  her  hands.  Milliners  and  dressmakers  were 
in  demand  for  a  time,  and  Mrs.  Buttercup's  present  ambition, 
was  fully  satisfied.  It  is  true,  she  could  see  in  the  distance 
an  establishment  of  her  own,  with  imported  carpets  and 
mirrors,  with  a  train  of  liveried  servants,  a  carriage  with 
the  Buttercup  arms  blazoned  on  its  panels ;  and  a  faint 
whisper  from  the  admiring  crowd,  "  There  goes  the  ele- 
gant Mrs.  Buttercup  !  "  reached  her  ears.  The  future  was 
full  of  glorious  visions,  full  of  royal  splendors,  full  of  every 
thing  that  the  heart  of  vanity  could  conceive.  But  for  the 
present,  she  was  satisfied. 

Things  went  on  swimmingly  at  the  new  store,  and  when 
Mrs.  Buttercup  proposed  a  tour  to  the  east,  her  husband 
readily  assented.  Our  lady  of  magnificent  aspirations  had 
considerable  difficulty  in  deciding  whether  she  should  pro- 
pose Saratoga  or  home  for  the  summer  excursion.  On  the 
one  hand,  Saratoga  was  fashionable,  and  she  would  have 
abundant  opportunity  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  ex- 
clusives.  But  on  the  other  hand,  if  she  went  home,  she 
could  create  a  tremendous  sensation  among  her  own  and  her 
husband's  friends  and  relatives.  She  could  carry  the  New 
York  fashions  among  them ;  could  astonish  them  with  a 
display  of  her  elegant  silk,  made  by  Madam  Hippolyta  Hy- 
falutin,  from  Paris,  and  her  splendid  new  bonnet  from  the 
.celebrated  rooms  of  Madam  Hesperiana  Blomereaux,  also 
from  Paris.  These  things  would  scarcely  be  noticed  by  the 
fashionables  of  Saratoga  —  the  absence  of  them  alone  would 
make  a  noise  there. 


128  EYERY  THING  COMFOBTABLE. 

And  then  her  husband's  glorious  prospects  in  the  dry  goods 
line,  as  well  as  the  immense  business  he  at  present  transacted 
—  it  would  be  so  delightful  to  hear  Tim  tell  them  all  about 
it !  How  his  old  father's  eyes  would  stick  out  when  he  heard 
his  son  talk  about  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  so  beautifully 
and  so  indifferently ;  how  he  would  open  his  mouth  with 
wonder,  when  Tim  should  tell  him  that  the  firm  of  Funk, 
Hunk,  and  Co.  —  the  most  extensive  dry  goods  establishment 
in  New  York  —  had  offered  him  three  thousand  dollars  salary 
to  superintend  their  retail  department,  and  how  indignantly 
he  had  rejected  the  offer.  Tim  had  such  a  graceful  way  of 
telling  these  things  ;  indeed,  she  knew  that  he  could  make 
the  most  out  of  a  very  small  matter. 

They  could  create  a  sensation  at  home,  and  the  prospect  of 
being  the  "  bright  particular  star  "  of  a  circle  of  admiring  and 
wondering  friends  enabled  her  to  decide  between  Saratoga  and 
the  east.  The  preparations  Avere  completed,  and  in  due  time 
they  reached  the  "  village  of  Boston,"  as  Tim  facetiously 
termed  it. 

Father  and  mother  were  duly  astonished  when  the  magnif- 
;cent  Mr.  Buttercup  spread  himself.  The  old  gentleman's 
jyes  stuck  out,  and  his  mouth  was  all  agape  with  wonder. 
He  "  couldn't  exactly  see  how  Broadway,  if  'twan't  more'n 
a  hund'ed  foot  wide,  could  hold  all  the  carriages  Tim  telled 
on  stoppin'  afore  his  door." 

•  In  the  course  of  events,  Tim  and  his  accomplished  lady 
called  on  his  sister,  Mrs.  Sparrow,  whose  husband  was  the 
secretary  of  an  insurance  company.  Mr.  Sparrow  lived  in 
his  own  house  —  a  small,  but  neat  and  convenient  struc- 
ture. It  was  plainly  furnished  ;  but  reasonable  people  said 
they  were  prettily  situated,  while  those  who  knew  them  best 
were  sure  they  were  contented  and  happy. 


EVEKY    iniNG    COMFORTABLE.  129 

Mrs.  Belladonna  Buttercup  looked  over  the  house,  and 
turned  up  her  nose  at  it.  Tim's  mother  was  with  them,  and 
the  simple-minded  old  lady  was  so  indiscreet  as  to  ask  her 
magnificent  daughter-in-law  how  she  would  like  just  such 
an  establishment.  She  should  not  like  it ;  it  would  not  suit 
her.  When  she  went  to  housekeeping,  not  less  than  six 
thousand  dollars  would  furnish  her  house.  At  present,  she 
preferred  boarding. 

"  Then  you  don't  like  my  house,  Belladonna  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Swallow,  with  the  slightest  appearance  of  disappoint- 
ment on  her  smiling  face. 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  that  I  do,  Maria,"  replied  Mrs.  Butter- 
cup, languidly. 

"  It  is  as  good  as  any  body  need  have,"  added  Mrs.  But- 
tercup, Senior.  "  If  I  ever  see  Tim  as  comfortably  settled 
as  Charles  is,  I  shall  be  perfectly  satisfied." 

"  Dear  me  !  Tim  wouldn't  look  at  such  an  establish- 
ment." 

"  He  may  be  glad  to  yet." 

"  I  am  sure  I  always  liked  my  house  very  much  indeed," 
said  Mrs.  Swallow. 

"  You  have  every  thing  comfortable,  Maria ;  every  thing 
comfortable" 

"  It  is  as  good  as  my  husband  can  afford ;  and  housekeep- 
ing is  so  much  preferable  to  boarding." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  I  would  not  go  to  housekeeping  for 
all  the  world." 

Mrs.  Swallow  shook  her  head. 

"  But  then  it  depends,  of  course,  upon  whether  you  get  a 
good  boarding  house,"  continued  Mrs.  Buttercup.  "  We  are 
delightfully  situated.  Some  of  the  first  families  in  the  city 


130  EVERY  THING  COMFORTABLE. 

board  there.  Besides,  there  is  so  much  society  in  New  York, 
I  really  don't  think  I  could  find  time  to  keep  house.  Why, 
there  is  the  Hon.  Mr.  Flunkey  —  he  is  a  .member  of  Con- 
gress, you  know  —  invited  us  to  go  out  to  his  country  seat 
on  the  Hudson  and  spend  the  summer.  Mrs.  Flunkey 
pressed  and  insisted,  and  would  not  take  '  no '  for  an 
answer." 

"  Did  you  go  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Buttercup,  Senior. 

"  Why,  no ;  we  couldn't  go.  Tim's  business  drove  him 
so,  that  the  poor  fellow  couldn't  sleep  nights.  And  there 
are  the  Smallheads  —  they  live  next  door  to  N.  P.  Willis, 
out  to  Lazy  wild " 

"  Idlewild,"  suggested  Mrs.  Swallow. 

"  So  it  was ;  well,  they  would  have  us  come  and  spend  a 
month  with  them.  They  are  very  fine  folks.  General 
Smallhead  was  an  aide-de-camp  with  General  Washington 
at  Braddock's  defeat,  you  remember." 

"  Indeed !  then  he  must  be  a  very  old  man,"  added  Mrs. 
Swallow. 

"  About  fifty." 

"Why,  Braddock's  defeat  occurred  a  hundred  years 
ago!" 

^'O,  no;  you  are  mistaken,"  replied  Mrs.  Buttercup, 
blushing  a  little.  "  But  no  matter  ;  he  insisted  on  a  visit. 
What  could  I  do  with  a  house  ?  " 

"  Very  true,"  answered  Mrs.  Swallow,  politely. 

"  And  then  Tim  has  a  season  ticket  at  the  opera.  He 
paid  two  hundred  dollars  for  a  choice  of  seats  last  season." 

"  Did  he  ?  "  said  the  mother-in-law,  with  a  frown. 

"  And  it  is  so  pleasant  when  you  are  away  so  much  to  be 
lid  of  the  responsibility  of  keeping  house." 


EVERY  THING  COMFORTABLE.  131 

Mrs.  Swallow  did  not  think  so.  But  Mrs.  Buttercup  had 
others  in  view  whom  it  was  her  purpose  to  astonish,  and  she 
took  her  leave  soon  after. 


CHAPTER    II. 

FOB  the  first  time  in  her  housekeeping  experience,  Mrs. 
Sparrow  felt  a  little  discontented,  after  her  sister-in-law  had 
gone.  Her  pleasant  little  house  looked  smaller  than  ever 
before;  its  plain,  substantial  furniture  looked  coarse  and 
common.  Why  couldn't  her  husband  have  some  of  the  fine 
things  that  other  people  had  ?  Why  couldn't  she  have  a 
carved  rosewood  table,  antique  chairs,  a  tapestry  carpet,  and 
velvet  draperies  at  the  windows  ?  Her  husband  owned  the 
house  in  which  they  lived,  and  had  over  a  thousand  dollars 
in  the  bank.  Mrs.  Walbend,  in  the  next  house,  had  all 
these  fine  things,  and  her  husband  got  but  a  thousand  dol-? 
lars  a  year,  while  Mr.  Swallow  got  fifteen  hundred. 

"  Charles,"  said  she,  when  her  husband  came  home  to  tea 
that  evening,  "  I  have  been  thinking  of  something." 

"  Have  you,  indeed !  That  is  rather  remarkable,"  replied 
Mr.  Swallow,  with  a  smile. 

"  You  don't  want  to  know  what,  I  suppose." 
"  I  do  !  I  am  '  dying  with  curiosity,'  as  the  ladies  say." 
"  Well,  then,  I  will  tell  you ;  but  don't  be  cross  about  it." 
Mr.  Swallow  promised  not  to  be  cross  about  it. 
"  I  have  been  thinking  about  having  some  new  furniture." 
The  husband  stuffed  a  tea  roll  into  his  mouth.     Evidently 
the  subject  was  not  a  very  inviting  one  to  him. 
"  I  want  you  to  entirely  refurnish  the  house." 


132  EVERY   THING    COMFOETAJBLE. 

Mr.  Swallow  upset  his  tea. 
"  You  can  afford  it,  can't  you  ?  " 
"  I  think  not,  my  dear." 
"  Yes,  you  can,  Charles." 

"  What  has  got  into  you,  Maria  ? "  asked  her  husband, 
very  seriously. 

"  You  promised  not  to  he  cross." 

"  I  won't  be  ;  but  I  am  very  much  surprised.  I  thought 
you  were  perfectly  satisfied  with  your  house  and  furniture." 

"We  have  every  thing  comfortable,  but "  Mrs.  Swal- 
low paused. 

"  What  more  do  you  want  ?  " 
"  Our  furniture  is  not  in  fashion." 
"  The  d — euse  it  isn't ! " 

"  No ;  and  I  want  some  antique  chairs,  a  carved  centre 
table,  a  tapestry  carpet,  and  velvet  draperies,  for  the  win- 
dows   " 

"  What  else  ?  " 

"  And  a  mirror  seven  feet  high  to  go  between  the  win- 
dows." 

"  Call  it  twelve,  my  dear." 

"  If  you  could  only  hear  Belladonna  tell  of  the  houses  in 
New  York.  Why,  she  says  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Chopstick  has  a 
mirror  in  her  parlor  which  is  twenty  feet  high  by  fifteen 
wide." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  how  big  the  doors  of  that  house  were  ? " 
"  And   the  carpet  which  General  Smallhead  bought  last 
winter  cost  nineteen  dollars  and  a  half  a  yard." 
"And  a  half?" 

"  Yes  ;  they  asked  twenty,  but  the  general  bought  BO  much 
that  they  took  off  half  a  dollar." 


EVEKY  THING  COMFOKTABLE.          133 
I 

"  Our  rooms  are  so  small  that  we  should  have  to  pay 
twenty,  then,"  added  Mr.  Swallow,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Other  folks  live  so  fine,  why  can't  we  ?  " 

"  Other  folks  have  money." 

"  So  have  you." 

"  A  little  ;  but  I  mean  to  keep  it  in  preference  to  buying 
this  trumpery  with  it." 

"  Since  Belladonna  has  been  here,  I  feel  quite  discon- 
tented." 

"  Belladonna  is  a  silly  creature,  and  I  thank  my  stars  that 
my  wife  is  not  like  her,"  replied  Mr.  Swallow,  chucking  the 
pretty  little  pouting  wife  under  the  chin. 

"  But  she  knows  what  the  fashions  are." 

"  And  that  is  all  she  does  know." 

"  She  says  we  have  *  every  thing  comfortable.'  " 

"  Which  is  very  true." 

"  But  we  are  not  in  style." 

"  Pshaw  ! " 

"  Won't  you  buy  some  more  stylish  furniture,  Charles  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear  ;  I  cannot  afford  it." 

"  If  you  could  only  hear  Belladonna  talk  ! " 

"  Probably  she  makes  things  appear  full  as  bright  as  they 
are." 

"  Tim  is  doing  a  great  business  ;  making  thousands  and 
thousands  of  dollars." 

"  I  hope  he  is." 

"  Why,  Charles !  he  has  taken  a  great  store  in  Broadway, 
and  keeps,  I  don't  know  how  many  clerks  he  said  —  fifty  or 
a  hundred." 

Mr.  Swallow's  cough  troubled  him. 

''  Maria,  you  used  to  be  very  contented  and  happy.  Don't 
12 


134  EVEEY  THING  COMTOKTABLE. 

let  this  silly  idea  get  possession  of  you.  Our  house  is  ' 
furnished  very  well.  If  I  had  twenty  thousand  dollars,  I 
would  not  furnish  it  any  better  —  that  is,  not  to  please  my- 
self. If  Tim  can  afford  to  live  in  better  shape  than  I  do, 
let  him ;  it  will  not  disturb  me.  Don't  think  any  thing 
more  about  it." 

"  I  won't,  Charles ;  but  I  felt  so  cheap  when  Belladonna 
talked  so  familiarly  of  all  those  fine  things,  and  of  her  ac- 
quaintances among  the  elite  ;  I  felt  as  though  I  was  nobody." 

"  Wait,  my  dear,  wait  a  while.  Time  will  show  what  all 
these  great  pretensions  amount  to.  I  hope  Tim  will  do 
well ;  but  with  such  loose  ideas  ojf  economy  as  he  appears 
to  have,  and,  more  than  all,  with  such  a  silly,  extravagant 
wife,  there  is  much  to  fear." 

Mrs.  Swallow  was  satisfied.     The  words  of  her  more  ex- 
perienced husband  banished  the  feelings  of  chagrin  and  dis- 
contentment she  had  permitted  herself  to  harbor.     A  careful 
reconsideration  of  Belladonna's  extravagant  stories  convince--' 
her  that  some  of  them,  if  not  made  out  of  "  whole  c) 
were  greatly  exaggerated,  and  she  came  to  the  co- 
that  her  -sister-in-law  was  no  more  of  a  lady  in  reality 
she  was  herself. 

CHAPTER    III. 

ABOUT  six  months  after  the  events  we  have  detailed,  as 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Swallow  were  sitting  down  to  breakfast,  they 
were  surprised  by  the  abrupt  appearance  of  Tim  and  his 
wife. 

"  This  is  unexpected,"  said  Mr.  Swallow. 
"  Rather  sudden,"  replied  Tim,  more  seriously  than  he 
was  wont  to  speak. 


EVJ2BY    THING   COMFOETABLE.  135 

*  I  am  glad  to  see  you.     Breakfast  is  all  ready." 

"  We  have  left  New  York  for  good,"  interposed  Bella- 
donna, after  she  had  kissed  and  hugged  her  sister-in-law 
twenty  times  —  an  exhibition  of  affection  which  she  had  not 
before  manifested  since  she  became  Mrs.  Buttercup. 

"  Indeed !  "  exclaimed  Charles  and  Maria  together. 

"  Fact !  "  said  Tim,  with  a  melancholy  laugh. 

"  And  I  am  so  glad  to  get  away  fr*om  there  !  I  always 
hated  New  York  !  "  added  Belladonna. 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  liked  New  York.  Pray,  how  are 
your  friends  the  Smallheads,  the  Flunkeys,  and  the  Chop- 
sticks ?  " 

"  I  hate  them  all !  " 

"  Going  into  "business   in    Boston,   Tim  ?  "     asked  Mr. 

•  - 

Swallow. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  have  not  heard  of  it  ?  "  said  Tim,  look- 
ing his  brother-in-law  hard  in  the  face. 

"  Heard  of  what  ?  " 

"  My  misfortunes." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Bu'st  up." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"  Sad,  but  true ;  "  and  Tim  essayed  a  stroke  of  humor. 
"  Yes,  sir  !  bu'st  up ;  not  a  sixpence  left  —  poor  as  a  church 
mouse  —  borrowed  the  money  to  come  on  with." 

"  Tim  makes  the  best  of  it,  you  see,"  added  Belladonna, 
with  a  laugh.  "  For  my  part,  I  was  almost  glad  he  failed, 
I  was  so  rejoiced  to  get  away  from  New  York.  But,  Maria, 
how  have  you  been  since  I  saw  you  ?  " 

"  Very  well  indeed." 

•'  And  how   is   little  Charley  ?  the  dear   little   fellow  1 " 


136  EVEBY  THING  COMFOBTABLE. 

continued  Mr.  Buttercup,  tenderly  kissing  the  little  boy,  who 
sat  in  the  high  chair  at  the  table,  and  who  had  contrived  to 
daub  his  mouth  pretty  thoroughly  with  the  molasses  on  his 
buckwheat  cakes. 

"  How  long  since  this  affair  happened  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Swal- 
low, when  the  party  had  seated  themselves  at  the  table. 

"  Three  weeks,"  replied  Tim.  "  Took  every  thing  I  had  — 
tried  to  get  a  situation  —  couldn't  find  one." 

"  But  where  were  Funks,  Hunks,  and  Co.  ?  Didn't  they 
want  you?  "  asked  Maria. 

Tim  looked  at  her  —  looked  queer. 

"  No  ;  they  have  a  man  now,"  replied  he. 

"  What  are  you  going-  to  do  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Swallow. 

"  I  happened  to  meet  White  in  New  York,  and  told  him 
how  I  was  situated  —  offered  me  five  hundred  a  year  to  come 
on  as  salesman  —  accepted  his  offer." 

Maria  looked  at  Belladonna,  and  thought  of  furnishing  a 
house  at  an  expense  of  six  thousand  dollars. 

After  breakfast,  when  Tim  and  Charles  had  gone  out,  Mrs. 
Buttercup  introduced  another  topic. 

"  How  pleasant  it  would  be  if  we  could  board  with  you  !  " 
said  she  abruptly. 

Mrs.  Swallow  did  not  think  it  would.be  so  pleasant ;  but 
of  course  she  could  not  say  so,  and,  being  too  honest  to  belie 
her  own  heart,  she  remarked  that  they  did  not  live  in  very 
good  style. 

"  Good  enough  for  any  body,  Maria." 

"  But  if  your  friends,  the  Smallheads  or  the  Flunkeys, 
should  happen  to  visit  you " 

"  O,  there  is  no  fear  of  that ;  if  they  did,  I  should  not 
care." 


EVERY  THING  COMFORTABLE.  137 

"  But  we  live  so  plainly  compared  with  your  fashionable 
boarding  houses." 

"  You  live  well  enough ;  and  your  house  is  so  nice  and 
convenient  —  O,  I  should  be  so  happy  !  " 

"  We  have  every  thing  comfortable,"  added  Maria,  slyly. 

Mrs.  Belladonna  Buttercup  stopped  to  think.  That  re- 
mark sounded  familiar  to  her  ears. 

"Very  comfortable,  and  nice,  and  pretty !  I  wish  Tim  had 
just  such  a  house  !  " 

"  You  have  altered  your  mind." 

"And  just  such  furniture  —  I  should  be  so  happy  !  " 

At  dinner  time  the  matter  was  still  further  discussed. 
Though  Mr.  Swallow  liked  Tim  very  well,  he  did  not  like 
his  wife  ;  but,  in  consideration  of  their  unfortunate  condition, 
he  consented  to  receive  them  as  boarders. 

Mrs.  Buttercup  never  says  a  word  now  about  an  establish- 
ment, and  Tim  has  a  more  serious  and  "respectful  way  of 
speaking  of  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  The  Smallheads 
are  never  mentioned,  and  Tim  thinks  he  missed  it  when  he 
moved  into  a  larger  store.  Belladonna  declares  she  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing  as  a  mirror  twenty  feet  long  by  fifteen 
high,  and  is  quite  sure  the  Smallhead  carpet  did  not  cost 
above  three  dollars  a  yard. 

Mrs.  Swallow  is  satisfied  that  fine  furniture  does  not  make 
a  happy  wife.  She  regards  the  New  York  experience  of  her 
brother  and  his  wife  as  an  excellent  commentary  on  the 
vanity  of  magnificent  pretensions.  And  though  her  husband 
has  been  elected  cashier  of  the  Bay  State  Bank,  with  a  salary 
of  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  per  annum,  she  is  still  content 
with  hav'ng  "  ETEBT  THING  COMFORTABLE." 
12* 


FAMILY   JARS. 

A    LESSON    FOB    WIVES. 

CHAPTER     I. 

'*  HE'S  real  ugly,  there !  He  treats  his  wife  shamefully ! " 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Benson,  a  pretty  little  woman,  who  had  been 
a  wife  just  eleven  months  and  twelve  days. 

"  Perhaps  not,  my  dear,"  replied  the  young  husband, 
quietly  crossing  his  legs  over  the  top  of  the  fire  frame,  and 
puffing  out  a  long  wreath  of  smoke  from  his  mouth  as  he 
removed  the  fragrant  regalia. 

"  Perhaps  not !     "Why,  haven't  I  seen  it  myself?  " 

"  You  are  not  acquainted  with  all  the  circumstances." 

"  Pshaw !  A  man  that  can  treat  his  wife  so  rudely  is  a 
perfect  brute  ;  I  don't  care  what  the  circumstances  are." 

"  Brown  always  was  a  good-hearted  fellow,  and  if  he  is 
changed  at  all,  matrimony  has  done  it." 

"Thank  you,  Charles;  you  are  very  complimentary.  I 
wonder  if  matrimony  has  changed  you." 

"  Why,  Julia,  we  have  not  been  married  quite  a  year  yet," 
replied  the  husband,  smiling. 

"  Indeed ! " 

"  Brown  has  been  married  five  years,"  replied  Mr.  Benson, 
with  admirable  self-possession. 

(138) 


.FAMILY    JARS.  139 

"  Then  you  think  /  have  not  shown  out  what  I  am  yet  ?  " 

"  Bah  !  My  dear,  you  are  making  quite  a  personal  matter 
of  it.  We  were  speaking  of  Brown." 

"  Brown  is  a  hrute  —  a  hog  !  "  said  the  lady,  in  a  pet. 

"  What  has  Brown  done  ?  " 

"  Done  ?  Why,  good  gracious  !  he  is  enough  to  wear  out 
a  woman's  patience." 

"  I  dare  say,  my  dear ;  but  what  has  he  done  ?  " 

"  Every  thing.  He  is  wearing  his  poor,  patient  wife  out ; 
she  will  die  —  poor,  weak,  sensitive  thing  —  under  such 
treatment." 

"  No  doubt  of  it ;  but  you  do  not  tell  me  what  he  has 
done." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  he  beats  her." 

"No." 

"  Nor  starves  her." 

"  Does  he  scold  at  her  ?  " 

"  No  ;  if  he  would  only  scold,  it  would  be  a  relief  to  her." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Brown  ! " 

"  He  is  so  cold  and  distant ;  I  am  sure  he  married  her  for 
her  money." 

"  Quite  likely  ;  but  how  is  it  with  Mrs.  Brown  ?  Is  she 
an  angel  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  as  she  is  an  angel ;  but  she  bears  her  sor- 
rows like  an  angel.  The  poor  thing  had  been  crying,  I 
know,  when  I  called  there  this  afternoon." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  what  the  matter  was  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  you  know  we  were  children  together,  and  never 
bad  any  secrets,"  replied  the  young  wife,  with  a  troubled  ex- 
pression ;  for  she  had  some  doubts  as  to  the  propriety  of 
what  she  had  done. 


140  FAMILY  JABS. 

"Don't  meddle  with  a  quarrel  between  man  and  wife, 
Julia,"  said  Mr.  Benson,  shaking  his  head. 

"  I  could  not  hear  to  see  her  suffering ;  so  I  asked  her  what 
the  matter  was." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  did." 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  Charles  ;  I  pitied  her  so,  and  I  was 
pretty  well  satisfied  as  to  the  cause  of  her  grief." 

"And  her  husband  ill  treats  her  ?  " 

"  He  does  not  love  her.  She  says  he  has  been  two  or 
three  days  without  speaking  to  her." 

"  That  is  bad  ;  but  who  is  to  blame  ?  " 

"  Who  is  to  blame  ?  Why,  he,  of  course  ;  "  and  the  pret- 
ty little  Mrs.  Benson  looked  up  in  astonishment  from  the 
little  cap  she  was  embroidering. 

"  Why  «  of  course '?"' 

"  He  don't  consult  her  tastes  in  regard  to  his  dress.  If 
she  asks  him  to  bring  her  home  any  thing  from  down  town, 
ten  chances  to  one  he  forgets  it.  He  don't  seem  to  care  for 
her  feelings.  The  poor  thing  says  she  has  cried  for  an  hour 
in  his  presence,  and  he  has  sat  like  a  log,  perfectly  unmoved 
—  so  different  from  you,  Charles." 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Brown  is  not  in  every  respect  like  you, 
my  dear." 

The  young  wife  looked  up  with  a  smile  of  gratified  pride. 
She  was  yet  young  and  beautiful,  and,  what  was  far  better 
than  youth  and  beauty,  she  was  good  tempered,  kind,  and 
.  reasonable.  Mrs.  Brown's  case  excited  all  her  sympathies, 
and  she  proceeded  to  detail  to  her  husband  a  list  of  the  poor 
lady's  trials.  But,  as  the  reader  will  be  better  able  to  appre- 
ciate them  by  being  present  during  the  scene  described,  we 
will  introduce  the  injured  lady  and  her  unfeeling  husband. 


FAMILY   JARS.  141 


CHAPTER    II. 

MBS.  BEOWN  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  parlor,  turning 
over  the  pages  of  the  last  new  novel.  Occasionally  she 
sighed,  as  though  the  world  had  used  her  badly,  and  she 
had  not  the  means  of  paying  off  the  world  for  its  ill  treat- 
ment. 

Mr.  Brown  kept  a  dry  goods  store,  and,  being  a  prudent, 
industrious  man,  he  substituted  his  own  services  for  those  of 
an  extra  clerk,  which  kept  him  busily  occupied  from  an  early 
hour  in  the  morning  till  late  in  the  evening. 

He  had  been  married  five  years,  and,  for  some  reason  un- 
known beyond  the  pale  of  his  own  home,  his  matrimonial 
experience,  without  being  decidedly  stormy,  was  very  far 
from  being  pleasant  and  profitable  to  either  party.  Brown 
was  a  good-hearted  fellow,  and  always  looked  on  the  bright 
side  of  things.  If  the  world  would  only  move  along  smooth- 
ly, he  was  perfectly  satisfied,  and  never  felt  disposed  to  quar- 
rel wifh  any  body. 

Mrs.  Brown's  disposition  was  not  particularly  objectiona- 
ble ;  she  was  kindhearted,  clever,  and  amiable,  as  the  world 
goes  ;  but  some  how  nothing  ever  went  right  with  her.  It 
seemed  as  though  every  body  took  a  malicious  pride  in  tor- 
menting her  —  Brown  in  particular.  If  Brown  bought  sau- 
sages for  dinner,  she  was  sure  to  want  mutton,  and  if  mut- 
ton, she  was  sure  to  want  sausages. 

Brown  could  not  understand  it.  Whatever  he  did  was 
sure  to  be  exactly  wrong.  But  Brown  was  a  philosopher ; 
and,  though  he  sometimes  got  so  disgusted  that  he  held  his 


142  FAMILY   JABS. 

tongue  for  several  days,  he  maintained  a  very  tolerable  de- 
gree of  good  nature. 

Brown  treated  himself  to  a  new  overcoat.  Being  reason- 
ably independent  in  such  matters,  he  had  assumed  the 
responsibility  of  purchasing  the  garment  without  consult- 
ing his  wife. 

Imprudent  Brown,  thus  to  expend  the  sum  of  eighteen 
dollars  without  consulting  Mrs.  B. !  Reckless  Brown,  thus 
to  buy  that  brown  coat,  when  all  the  experience  of  the  past 
pointed  to  the  appalling  consequences  !  Did  you  not  re- 
member the  last  time  you  purchased  a  pair  of  pants,  that 
neither  the  hue  nor  the  texture  suited  your  amiable  partner  ? 
Did  you  not  call  to  mind  the  last  curtain  lecture  on  this  very 
topic,  when  you  audaciously  ordered  the  tailor  to  make  you 
a  coat  off  that  piece?  Knew  you  not  that  Mrs.  B.  likes  not 
black,  drab,  green,  brown,  olive,  blue,  nor  any  thiag  of  the 
fancy  order  ? 

But  Brown  recklessly  ordered  the  coat,  and  when  it  was 
done,  he  recklessly  put  it  on.  What  made  the  offence  a 
hundred  fold  more  horrible,  he  coolly  marched,  with  the  coat 
on,  into  the  parlor  where  Mrs.  B.  sat  by  the  fire,  tinning 
over  the  pages  of  the  last  new  novel. 

The  lady  was  thunderstruck  ;  but  she  was  not  one  of  your 
spitfires,  who  make  a  tremendous  tempest  in  your  presence 
when  any  thing  does  not  suit  them.  She  was  meek,  patient, 
suffering,  under  any  indignity,  even  one  so  pointed  and 
wicked  as  in  the  present  case. 

The  lady  looked  up  from  her  book,  and  bestowed  a  lim- 
juid  smile  upon  the  partner  of  her  joys,  and,  alas  !  of  her 
•orrows  too. 

Brown  smiled  in  return;  he  could  not  do  less  than  smpje. 


FAMILY   JARS.  143 

He  even  looked  innocent,  as  though  he  had  done  nothing 
•wrong  —  as  though  he  had  not  aimed  a  blow  at  the  peace  of 
his  amiable  lady. 

"  "What  have  you  got  on,  Jonas  ?  "  asked  she,  mildly. 

"  An  overcoat,"  replied  Brown,  sententiously. 

"  A  new  one  ?  "  sighed  the  lady. 

"  Just  from  the  tailor's  shop,"  answered  Brown,  screwing 
up  his  courage  to  meet  the  onslaught. 

"  You  know  I  don't  like  brown,  Jonas." 

"  I  do,"  replied  Brown,  valorously. 

"You  know  I  never  liked  brown." 

Brown  had  half  a  mind  to  construe  the  remark  into  a  pun ; 
but  he  was  forbearing,  thought  no  evil,  and  so  kept  silence. 

"  It's  a  sack  too  ;  you  know  I  never  liked  a  sack." 

"  I  always  did." 

"  A  surtout  would  become  you  much  better." 

"  I  like  a  sack." 

"  It  is  a  horrid-looking  coat,"  sighed  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Muddle  says  it  is  the  best  looking  coat  I  ever  had  on." 

"  Muddle  !     Of  course  he  would  say  so." 

"  Temple  said  so  too." 

*'  Temple  has  no  taste." 

"  I  agree  with  Temple."  . 

"  You  never  will  wear  a  coat  that  suits  me." 

Brown  thought  this  was  strictly  true,  but,  being  a  prudent 
man,  he  held  his  peace. 

"  You  still  persist  in  letting  Muddle  make  your  clothes, 
though  he  charges  you  more  than  any  one  else  would." 

"  His  prices  are  reasonable." 

*'  I  wish  you  would  let  some  other  tailor  make  your  coat ; 
Muddle's  clothes  never  set  well." 


144  FAMILY   JARS. 

"Fit  me  to  a  T." 

"  If  it  had  only  been  black  !  " 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  forget  that  my  last  coat  was  black, 
and  you  did  not  like  that." 

"  It  suits  your  figure  better  than  brown." 

Just  at  that  moment  the  door  bell  rang,  and  the  servant 
brought  in  a  pair  of  pants. 

"  What  is  that  ? "  asked  the  lady. 

"  Pants." 

Mrs.  B.  eagerly  opened  the  bundle.  The  garment  was 
black. 

"  Black  pants ! "  exclaimed  the  lady,  holding  them  up 
Defore  her ;  "  you  know  I  don't  like  black  pants."  , 

"  Indeed,  my  dear,  you  just  now  said  you  did  like  black." 

"  Not  black  pants ;  you  know  I  never  did  like  them ; 
besides,  they  won't  wear  well." 

"  But,  Mrs.  B.,  I  do  not  wish  you  to  wear  them." 

The  lady  thought  this  was  exceedingly  cruel  of  Mr.  Brown ; 
tor  she,  poor  woman,  had  no  more  idea  of  "  wearing  the 
breeches  "  than  she  had  of  going  to  Congress. 

"  They  suit  me,  my  dear.  I  never  interfere  with  your 
taste  in  regard  to  bonnets  and  dresses.." 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  you  like  best ;  I  am  sure 
I  desire  to  conform  to  your  taste." 

"  Don't  wish  to.  I  cannot  tell  what  is  good  taste  in  fur- 
belows and  flounces  any  more  than  a  woman  can  in  coats  and 
pants." 

"  But  you  might  be  a  little  more  attentive  to  my  wishes. 
You  used  to  once." 

This  was  a  hard  hit,  and  Mr.  Brown  was  silent. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  care  whether  I  am  suited  or  not  now/' 


FAMILY   JARS.  145 

Brown  still  was  silent ;  the  story  had  been  repeated  so 
often  that  he  knew  precisely  what  to  expect. 

Mrs.  Brown  continued  to  rehearse  her  grievances,  believ- 
ing herself  the  most  miserable  woman  in  the  world.  Finally, 
the  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  and  she  sobbed  bitterly. 
Brown  was  a  monster ;  he  never  tried  to  please  her,  even 
in  the  slightest  things ;  and  the  thought  l\iat  her  husband's 
affections  were  alienated  was  perfectly  overwhelming. 

Brown  had  picked  up  the  last  new  novel,  which  had  fallen 
from  Mrs.  B.'s  lap,  and  sat  turning  over  the  leaves  with  the 
most  stoical  indifference.  How  could  Brown  sit  and  see  his 
beloved  wife,  the  partner  of  his  joys  and  sorrows,  weeping 
as  though  her  heart  would  break,  and  not  offer  her  a  word 
of  consolation  ?  Brown  was  a  philosopher. 


CHAPTER    III. 

IT  was  after  such  a  scene  as  we  have  described  that  Mrs. 
Benson  called  upon  the  friend  of  her  early  years,  and  found 
her  in  tears.  'She  believed  that  poor  Mrs.  Brown  was  cruel- 
ly treated  by  her  hardhearted  husband. 

Several  months  elapsed,  and  the  difficulty  between  Brown 
and  his  wife  increased.  The  lady  was  an  habitual  grumbler  ; 
she  grumbled  for  the  sake  of  grumbling,  because  it  seemed 
to  be  a  "  fixed  fact "  with  her  that  grumbling  was  one  of 
the  essentials  of  her  existence  —  one  of  the  luxuries  of  life. 

Though  Brown  was  a  philosopher,  there  is  a  point  beyond 

which  even  philosophy  cannot  go  to    defend   its  votaries. 

The    lady's    unamiable    peculiarity    grew   upon    her,    and 

Brown's    disgust   threatened    to    produce   a  fatal  rupture. 

13 


146  FAMILY   JAttS. 

Several  times  after  the  lady  had  given  him  a  lesson  on  the 
duty  of  consulting  a  wife's  taste,  —  after  she  had  cried  her 
eyes  out  with  vexation  because  she  could  not  grunvble  any 
more,  —  her  unfeeling  spouse  had  deserted  the  house,  re- 
maining out  till  midnight.  Some  flying  rumors  were  in  cir- 
culation, too,  that  he  had  heen  seen  "  lingering  long  at  the 
bowl,"  and  even  that  he  frequented  gambling  houses. 

Then  people  felt  sorry  for  poor  Brown,  an  honest,  hard- 
working, economical  man  as  he  was  ;  it  was  a  great  pity  that 
he  should  go  to  destruction. 

Mrs.  Benson  felt  keenly  for  her  friend.  Brown  was  a 
monster ;  and  the  injured  lady  told  her  she  should  certainly 
die  if  a  drunken  husband  were  added  to  her  other  miseries. 
She  even  wished  Mrs.  Benson  to  request  her  husband  to  talk 
to  Brown  about  his  vicious  propensities. 

Mr.  Benson  had  done  so.  Brown  was  a  little  "  struck 
up  "  at  first,  but  quietly  informed  the  obliging  remonstrant 
that,  since  home  had  become  a  hell  to  him,  he  had  been 
obliged  to  seek  comfort  in  a  grog  shop,  and  concluded  his 
cold-blooded  remark  by  suggesting  that  people  had  better 
mind  their  own  business. 

Benson  thought  so  too,  and  fully  resolved  not  to  meddle 
with  the  matter  again.  But,  although  Brown  had  resisted 
his  well-meaning  neighbor's  interference,  it  was  not  without 
its  effect,  and  the  injured  lady  had  the  satisfaction  of  inform- 
ing her  sympathizing  friend  that  he  did  much  better,  that  his 
breath  did  not  smell  half  so  strong  of  rum,  and  that  he  was 
at  home  every  evening  by  nine  o'clock. 

Mrs.  Benson  was  encouraged,  and  a  few  days  after  ac- 
cepted an  invitation  to  tea  at  the  Browns'. 

That  day,   the    reckless,   obstinate    husband    had   worn 


FAMILY    JARS.  147 

nome  to  dinner  a  new  plaid  vest  —  a  pattern  in  fashion  at 
that  time. 

The  lady  did  not  like  plaid  —  she  never  liked  plaid  ;  and 
poor  Brown  went  to  the  store  leaving  his.  wife  in  tears  at  his 
perverse  taste.  She  had  exhausted  all  her  rhetoric  in  grum- 
bling at  the  offending  garment,  and  her  hardhearted  hus- 
band had  maintained  his  usual  indifference  to  sighs  and 
tears.  Brown  was  disgusted ;  and,  though  we  heartily  ap- 
prove of  husbands  pleasing  their  wives  in  these  matters, 
some  how  we  cannot  find  it  in  our  heart  to  blame  him.  She 
always  grumbled  at  him,  and,  poor  fellow,  what  could  he  do  ? 

Mrs.  Benson  did  not  arrive  in  season  to  hear  the  lady's 
gtory  about  the  vest  before  Brown  himself  came.  He  was  in 
high  glee,  apparently,  notwithstanding  the  recent  tempest. 
The  visitor  thought  him  a  "  very  nice  man,"  and  she  sighed 
when  she  thought  of  his  vicious  propensities. 

Brown  was  polite,  very  polite,  and  the  pretty  little  Mrs. 
Benson  felt  no  reserve  in  his  presence. 

"  What  a  pretty  vest  you  have  got  on,  Mr.  Brown  !  "  said 
she,  smiling  sweetly  upon  the  horrible  husband. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  exclaimed  Brown,  rubbing  his  hands 
with  excitement. 

"  Certainly,  I  do ;  it's  a  perfect  love  of  a  vest.  I  shall 
persuade  Charles  to  have  one  just  like  it." 

"  How  strange  you  talk,  Julia  ! "  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

"Strange!  why?" 

"To  caU  that  vest  pretty." 

"  I'm  sure  it  is." 

"  It's  a  perfect  fright.  My  husband  has  no  taste  in  hia 
dress." 

"  Why,  now,  I  think  he  dresses  with  admirable  taste," 


148  FAMILY   JARS. 

replied  Mrs.  Benson,  surveying  the  apparel  of  Brown,  who 
stood  like  a  show  image  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  "  1 
admire  his  taste." 

"  It  is  not  my  taste,"  sighed  Mrs.  Brown. 

The  pretty  little  sympathizing  woman  was  seized  with  a 
doubt  whether  Brown  was  such  a  monster,  after  all. 

Just  then  Bridget  popped  her  head  in  at  the  door  to  say 
that  the  baker  had  not  sent  the  tea  cakes. 

"  The  tea  cakes,  Jonas,"  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  There  !  by  all  that  is  sweet  and  pleasant  to  the 
taste,  I  forgot  all  about  them,"  exclaimed  Brown,  seizing 
his  hat. 

"  Just  the  way  always,"  groaned  the  suffering  wife.  "  You 
never  will  do  the  little  errands  I  ask  you  to." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  I  intended  to  do  the  errand,  but  I  forgot 
it,"  pleaded  Brown,  with  abundant  good  humor. 

"  You  always  forget  what  J  want  you  to  do." 

"  But,  my  love,  I  did  not  forget  it  on  purpose." 

"  It's  always  the  way  ;  "  and  Mrs.  Brown  threw  herself 
into  a  chair  with  an  exhibition  of  despondency  which  would 
have  answered  very  well  for  the  concentrated  miseries  of  a 
whole  lifetime. 

"  There's  no  harm  done ;  it  is  only  half  past  five,  and  I 
will  have  the  tea  cakes  here  in  ten  minutes." 

"  You  might  just  as  well  have  brought  them  before." 

Brown  looked  cross,  threw  down  his  hat  in  a  pet,  and 
settled  himself  upon  the  sofa. 

Mrs.  Benson  was  silent  with  astonishment.  Brown  rose 
fifty  degrees  in  her  estimation. 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  get  the  tea  cakes,  Jonas  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Brown,  meekly,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  minutes. 


FAMILY   JARS.  149 

Brown  was  silent. 

"  You  will  not  get  back  in  season  if  you  don't  go  soon.'* 

Brown  picked  up  the  evening  paper,  but  said  nothing. 

"  I  must  go  myself  then,"  said  the  suffering  lady,  rising 
from  her  chair. 

Brown  knew  this  was  only  a  part  of  his  wife's  tactics ; 
but  the  pretty  little  Mrs.  Benson,  for  whose  good  opinion  he 
entertained  some  anxiety,  was  present,  and  he  concluded  to 
go  himself. 

When  he  had  gone,  Mrs.  Brown  fixed  a  melancholy  gaze 
upon  her  visitor. 

"  Now  you  have  seen  just  how  he  behaves,"  said  she, 
with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  I  have,"  replied  Mrs.  Benson,  who  for  the  first  time  per- 
ceived that  poor  Brown  was  not  the  greatest  sinner  in  the 
world. 

"And  so  he  wears  my  life  out." 

"  Perhaps  your  husband  is  not  wholly  to  blame,"  sug- 
g^sted  Mrs.  Benson. 

"  Why,  Julia ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Brown,  with  languid  em- 
phasis. "  I  am  sure  I  bear  and  suffer  every  thing.  I  had 
nearly  cried  my  eyes  out  once  before  to-day." 

"  Mr.  Brown  seems  disposed  to  be  very  good  natured." 

"  Good  natured,  Julia !  Didn't  you  see  how  angry  he 
got  ?  He  went  out  without  speaking  a  word." 

"  But  you  do  not  reflect  how  cruelly  you  provoked  him  by 
needlessly  finding  fault  with  him.  If  I  should  say  half  as 
much  to  my  husband  as  you  said  to  Mr.  Brown,  he  would 
turn  me  out  of  the  house,"  answered  Mrs.  Benson,  who,  aa 
she  found  herself  implicated  in  the  quarrel,  was  disposed  to 
be  very  candid. 

13* 


150  FAMILY    JAKS. 

"  I  was  not  conscious  of  doing  any  thing  to  provoke  him." 

"  You  found  fault  with  his  vest." 

"  But  such  a  horrid-looking  veat !  " 

"  There  you  and  he  differ  ;  you  say  he  never  complains  of 
your  dress." 

«  No." 

"  He  respects  your  tastes,  then.  You  know  how  bad  you 
feel  when  any  person  says  any  thing  disparaging  of  your 
clothes  ;  every  body  does." 

"  But  he  always  dresses  BO  shamefully  out" of  taste." 

"  Other  people  do  not  think  so  ;  but  even  if  he  did,  you 
should  not  find  fault  with  him." 

"  I  don't  find  fault,"  sighed  Mrs.  Brown  ;  "  I  only  men- 
tion what  I  like  best." 

"  And  the  tea  cakes,  —  you  ought  not  to  have  said  a 
word." 

"  Why,  he  is  so  careless " 

"  All  men  are  of  things  about  the  house  ;  but  you  must 
consider  that  their  minds  are  full  of  business.  My  husban^l 
is  just  so ;  but  then  he  has  so  many  things  to  think  of,  I 
wonder  that  he  does  not  forget  every  little  commission  I 
give  him." 

"  But  your  husband  is  different  from  mine.  He  tries  to 
remember." 

"  Ah,  Mary,  I  see  now  what  has  caused  the  rupture  be- 
tween you  and  Mr.  Brown." 

"  Then  you  think  I  am  altogether  to  blame  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not  entirely ;  but  I  am  satisfied,  from  what  I 
know  of  your  husband,  that,  if  you  cease  to  find  fault  with 
aim,  he  will  be  all  that  a  husband  should  be." 

Mrs.  Brown  bit  her  lip,  and  was  silent.     The  truth  had 


FAMILY    JABS.  151 

forced  itself  home  to  her  understanding.  She  was,  as  we  have 
before  remarked,  an  amiable,  goodhearted  body  ;  but  the  fact 
that  she  had  actually  grumbled  away  the  peace  of  her  once 
happy  fireside  had  never  before  occurred  to  her.  Her  eyes 
were  opened,  and  she  saw  that  even  so  little  a  thing  as  ha- 
bitual fault  finding  can  alienate  the  affections  of  man  and 
wife,  and  transform  home  —  the  temple  of  love  and  peace  — 
into  a  hell.  Her  resolution  was  formed,  and  fortified  by  all 
the  strength  of  her  nature. 

Brown  returned  with  the  tea  cakes.  He  was  cold,  sullen, 
and  reserved ;  but  a  smile  from  his  wife  —  albeit  a  boon 
seldom  vouchsafed  him  —  restored  him  to  his  former  equa- 
nimity. 

"  Jonas,  did  you  think  to  order  some  more  coal  to-day  ? 
Bridget  says  there  is  not  enough  to  get  breakfast  with,"  ob- 
served Mrs.  Brown,  as  she  handed  her  husband  his  second 
cup  of  tea. 

Brown  confessed  that  he  had  forgotten  it,  and  braced  up 
his  nerves  to  meet  the  storm.  ^ 

"  Never  mind,  Jonas  ;  we  will  contrive  to  get  along  with 
wood." 

Brown  dropped  his  knife  and  fork  in  wonder,  and  looked 
aghast  at  his  wife. 

It  was  no  illusion ;  his  wife  was  as  gentle  in  her  thoughts 
as  in  her  actions.  She  found  no  fault ;  and,  for  the  first 
time  in  many  months,  Brown  felt  sorry  that  he  had  forgotten 
to  execute  her  commission. 

After  tea,  Mr.  Benson  came  to  spend  the  evening,  and  it 
was  one  of  the  happiest  evenings  ever  known  beneath  the 
roof  of  the  Browns.  Nobody  but  the  two  ladies  could  tell 
why,  but,  some  how,  every  thing  went  different  from  the 


152  FAMILY   JARS. 

ordinary  course  of  events  in  the  family  circle.  Brown  was 
bewildered  —  didn't  know  what  io  make  of  it  that  his  wife 
found  no  fault. 

And  she  never  found  fault  to  any  immoderate  degree 
again.  Peace  was  restored.  Brown  went  no  more  to  the 
drinking  saloons,  never  staid  out  late  at  night,  and  never  let 
his  wife  cry  without  wiping  away  her  tears. 

He  never  knew  what  had  produced  the  wonderful  change 
in  his  wife's  temperament,  hut  he  always  laid  it  to  the  visit 
of  the  pretty  little  woman  who  admired  his  plaid  vest. 

We  never  see  a  married  man  enter  a  drinking  shop  to 
spend  an  evening  without  thinking  that,  perhaps,  he  has 
been  driven  from  his  fireside  by  a  snarling,  petulant  discon- 
tented, fault-finding  wife. 


LIFE  INSURANCE; 

OH, 

THE     POOR     MAN'S     LEGACY. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  GOT  his  life  insured  !  Then  he  will  certainly  die  !  "  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Jones,  the  mother  of  a  family  of  three  children, 
to  her  intimate  friend  Mrs.  Brown,  also  rejoicing  in  the  ma- 
ternity of  a  promising  brood  of  little  ones.  "  For  my  part, 
I  would  no  more  let  my  husband  get  his  life  insured  than  I 
would  let  him  cut  his  head  off.  He  will  certainly  die." 

"  That  is  the  lot  of  all  mortals,  Mrs.  Jones,  and  I  presume 
my  husband  does  not  consider  himself  exempt  from  the  com- 
mon lot,"  replied  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean ;  he  will  die  before  his  time 
comes." 

"  His  time  will  have  come  when  he  dies." 

"  How  captious  you  are  !  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  you.  The  good  book  says  that  '  no 
man  knoweth  the  day  nor  the  hour.'  " 

"  But  I  never  knew  any  man  to  get  his  life  insured 
without  dying  very  soon  after." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  getting  a  life  insured  is  likely 
to  hasten  the  end  of  the  assured  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Brown,  with 
a  pleasant  smile  at  the  superstition  of  her  friend. 

(153) 


154  I-IFE   INSUEANCE. 

"Well,  no,  not  exactly  that ;  only  it  is  a  bad  sign." 

"  Pshaw  !  Do  you  think  your  husband's  barn  is  any  more 
likely  to  be  burned  down  because  he  has  taken  the  precau- 
tion to  have  it  insured  ?  " 

"  But  that  is  not  like  getting  one's  life  insured  ;  it  really 
seems  to  me  just  like  trifling  with  serious  things." 

"  How  absurd  ! " 

"  But  it  does.  Only  think  of  attempting  to  thwart  the 
will  of  God.  Insuring  a  life  !  " 

"  You  take  the  wrong  view  of  it." 

"  Our  minister  takes  the  same  view  of  it,"  returned  Mrs. 
Jones,  with  triumphant  assurance. 

"  He  does  not  understand  the  subject  then." 

"  Our  minister  don't  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  he  does  not." 

Mrs.  Jones  permitted  a  sneer  to  play  upon  her  lips,  as 
Bne  paused  in  her  sewing,  and  gazed  at  her  friend. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  know  more  than  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Schism,  a  regularly  educated  minister  of  the  gospel, 
in  good  and  regular  standing  ?  "  continued  she,  scarcely  able 
to  restrain  her  indignation  within  a  reasonable  limit. 

"  I  presume  the  Rev.  Mr.  Schism  has  confined  his  atten- 
tion mostly  to  the  study  of  theology,  and  knows  much  more 
about  that  than  he  does  about  the  practical  affairs  of  every- 
day life,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Brown,  somewhat  warmly. 

"  He  says  that  it  is  trifling  with  death  to  get  one's  life 
insured ;  and  I  am  sure,  if  my  husband  got  his  life  insured, 
I  should  certainly  expect  he  would  die  the  very  next  day 
after  he  did  the  sacrilegious  thing." 

"  I  think  you  told  me  the  other  day  that  Mr.  Jones  had 
put  some  money  in  the  Savings  Bank." 

"  Only  twenty  dollars  —  all  he  could  spare." 


LIFE    INSUBANCE.  155 

"  What  did  he  put  it  there  for  ?  " 

"  What  for  ?     Why,  to  keep,  of  course." 

"  Why  does  he  wish  to  keep  it  ?  " 

"  What  a  fool  you  pretend  to  be  !  " 

"  Pray  answer  me." 

"  Against  a  rainy  day." 

"  Has  he  no  definite  purpose  in  laying  up  money  ? " 

"  To  be  sure  he  has.  He  means  to  have  something  for 
his  family,  in  case  he  should  be  taken  away." 

"  But  isn't  this  trifling  with  serious  things  ?  What  does 
your  minister  say  about  it  ?  " 

"  How  silly  you  are  !  " 

"  But  you  are  providing  against  such  a  calamity  as  the 
death  of  your  husband." 

"  It  is  not  like  life  insurance." 
^     "  Just  like  it,  only  less  efficient." 

"  I  don't  think  so." 

"  Suppose  your  husband  should  die  this  year." 

"Don't  talk  so." 

"  Nay,  Mrs.  Jones,  it  is  well  to  look  these  things  in  the 
face,  especially  when  you  have  used  your  influence  to  prevent 
your  husband  from  making  a  provision  for  you  in  the  event 
of  his  death." 

"  He  is  opposed  to  the  whole  thing  himself." 

"  Only  think,  if  he  should  die  this  year,  what  would  be- 
come of  you  and  your  three  children  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we  should  get  along  just  as  a  thousand 
others  have  done  under  the  same  circumstances." 

"  Think  what  a  struggle  you  would  have  !  " 

"  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,"  replied  Mrs. 
Jones,  coldly.  "  But  here  is  my  husband ;  he  can  speak  for 
himself." 


156  HFE   INSURANCE. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE  two  ladies,  with  whose  conversation  we  have  prefaced 
our  simple  story,  had  been  intimate  friends  for  many  years. 
About  the  same  time  they  had  married  men  in  humble  cir- 
cumstances, and  taken  houses  near  each  other. 

Their  husbands  were  journeymen  mechanics,  honest,  in- 
dustrious, and  frugal  men,  fair  specimens  of  the  bone  and 
sinew  of  New  England.  Their  families  had  increased  in 
about  the  same  ratio,  and  though  they  received  good  wages, 
they  found  it  required  the  most  rigid  system  of  domestic 
economy  to  enable  them  to  keep  along,  and  save  a  trifling 
sum  against  a  "  rainy  day." 

Brown  was  a  thoughtful  man,  whose  domestic  and  afiec- 
tional  nature  was  fully  developed.  He  loved  his  wife  and 
children  with  a  devotion  worthy  a  reasonable  being.  His 
happiest  hours  were  spent  by  the  cheerful  fireside  of  home. 
He  was  a  conscientious  parent,  and  his  care  for  his  depend- 
ent loved  ones  reached  beyond  the  day  of  their  present  pros- 
perity. 

In  the  future  might  be  clouds  and  storms.  The  whirlwind 
of  adversity  might  burst  upon  him,  and  then  what  would 
become  of  his  wife  —  of  Charley,  and  Joey,  and  Emma  ? 

It  was  a  question  with  which  few  would  have  troubled 
themselves  ;  but  it  was  a  question  of  momentous  importance. 
It  was  not  borrowing  trouble  ;  it  was  prudent  forethought. 
But  Brown  was  strong  in  his  bone  and  muscle,  and  while 
he  had  an  arm,  and  there  was  bread  in  the  land,  he  could 
procure  it.  All  he  could  do  was  to  save  a  scanty  pittance 


LIFE    INSUBANCE.  157 

from  his  wages  to  meet  the  hour  of  trial,  if  it  should  ever 
come. 

Death  is  no  respecter  of  persons.  It  takes  not  only  those 
•who  leave  houses,  and  lands,  and  money,  and  stocks  behind 
them,  but  it  snatches  the  poor  man  away  from  his  dependent 
family.  It  robs  the  toiling  wife  and  the  helpless  little  ones 
of  the  protecting  arm  which  had  been  bread,  raiment,  and 
shelter  to  them. 

Brown  hpped  to  live  many  years,  to  bring  up  his  family, 
and  when,  by  and  by,  business  prospered  with  him,  to  be 
enabled  to  make  a  decent  provision  for  them  when  he  should 
go  hence. 

Every  man  hopes  thus  much;  many  more  than  hope  — 
they  feel  sure  of  it. 

Brown  was  reasonable.  A  falling  timber,  a  fever,  a  thou- 
sand calamities,  might  carry  him  off  before  the  year  expired. 
And  what  would  become  of  his  family  then  ?  What  more 
could  his  wife  do,  with  three  helpless  children,  than  take 
care  of  them  ?  He  could  leave  them  no  legacy.  He  was  a 
poor  man. 

The  reflection  was  startling,  The  fear  of  death  took  pos- 
session of  him  —  not  the  fear  of  passing  through  the  dark 
valley,  for  Brown  was  an  honest  man,  and  trembled  not  in 
view  of  judgment  and  retribution,  but  the  fear  of  leav- 
ing his  wife  and  children  to  hunger  for  food,  to  tremble  with 
cold,  to  starve  for  intellectual  sustenance.  For  several 
weeks  he  was  gloomy  and  sad,  and  more  than  once  he 
questioned  the  wisdom  of  his  getting  married  before  he  had 
the  means  to  support  his  family  in  case  of  his  decease. 

While  thus  depressed  in  spirits,  his  eye  was  attracted  by 
the  advertisement  of  a  Life  Insurance  Company.  His  coun- 
14 


158  LIFE    INSUEANCE. 

tenance  brightened  up  with  a  smile,  as  he  read  the  notice. 
The  remedy  was  before  him,  and  it  seemed  worse  than  folly 
not  to  embrace  it. 

Before  another  week  had  passed  away,  he  had  thoroughly 
investigated  the  whole  subject,  and  insured  his  life  in  the 
sum  of  three  thousand  dollars. 

Like  a  true  apostle  of  a  good  cause,  he  was  not  content  to 
enjoy  the  bles'sing  alone  ;  and  more  than  once  he  had  called 
the  attention  of  his  fellow- workmen  to  the  subject.  Many 
of  them  had  followed  his  example  ;  many  of  them  were  ob- 
stinate, and  among  them  Jones  was  the  most  obstinate  of  all. 

Brown  was  always  pleased  to  discuss  his  favorite  topic. 
Life  insurance  had  been  a  boon  of  happiness  to  him  ;  it  nad 
dispelled  the  dark  clouds  which  lowered  over  the  future  ;  it 
had  done  more  to  calm  his  mind  in  relation  to  that  great 
change  which  must  come  to  all  than  the  sermons  of  a  hun- 
dred years  could  have  done ;  and  he  was  eager  to  confer 
these  blessings  upon  others. 

Mrs.  Brown  was  quite  as  enthusiastic  as  her  husband  ;  and 
when  Jones  entered  the  room  where  we  left  the  ladies,  a 
strong  hope  that  she  might  yet  convert  him  to  her  faith  per- 
vaded her  mind. 

But  Jones  was  more  than  usually  obstinate. 

"  It's  all  a  humbug,  Mrs.  Brown,  you  may  depend  upon 
it,"  said  he.  "  These  fellows  mean  to  get  your  money,  and 
keep  it.  You  never  will  catch  them  paying  the  policies." 

Mrs.  Brown  pointed  him  to  the  recorded  experience  of  the 
past. 

"  I  put  my  money  in  the  bank,  and  feel  that  it  is  safe." 

"  How  much  can  you  save  in  a  year  ?  " 

"  Well,  about  a  hundred  dollars,  as  wages  are  now." 


LIFE    INSUBANCE.  159 

< 

"  Which  is  just  my  husband's  estimate." 

"  But  he  pays  nearly  as  much  as  that  to  keep  insured." 

"  Very  true.  He  is  insured  for  three  thousand  dollars. 
If  he  should  die  to-day  —  which  God  forbid  !  —  his  family 
would  realize  that  sum." 

"  Perhaps  they  would." 

"  But,  by  putting  one  hundred  dollars  a  year  into  the  bank, 
even  if  you  got  six  per  cent.,  compound  interest,  your  money 
would  amount  to  only  about  six  hundred  dollars  in  five  years." 

"  Call  it  twenty  years  —  how  then  ?  " 

"  If  you  could  be  sure  of  living  twenty  years,  perhaps  the 
money  would  amount  to  more  than  the  policy.  But  only 
think  of  your  family  if  you  should  die  within  one,  or  even 
five  years ! " 

"  You  are  a  shrewd  one  !  "  said  Jones,  evasively. 

"  In  twenty  years  your  children  will  be  able  to  take  care 
of  themselves." 

"  It's  all  a  humbug,  you  may  depend  upon  it,  Mrs.  Brown ; 
got  up  to  support  lazy  fellows  in  idleness  —  nothing  more,  I 
candidly  believe,"  replied  Jones  ;  and  there  the  conversation 
ended,  much  to  the  regret  of  Mrs.  Brown  that  she  had  been 
unable  to  win  a  convert  to  the  faith. 


CHAPTER    III. 

SOME  six  months  after,  while  Jones  was  engaged  in  raising 
a  house,  he  fell  from  the  plate  to  the  ground,  striking  upon  a 
rock  in  his  fall.  He  was  conveyed  to  his  home,  and  a  coun- 
cil of  physicians  pronounced  it  a  hopeless  case.  His  spine 
was  injured,  and  there  was  no  possibility  of  recovery. 


160 

He  lingered  along  for  a  month  in  the  most  excruciating 
agony,  and  then  died.  The  expenses  of  his  sickness  and  of 
the  funeral  absorbed  all  his  little  savings ;  and  when  his  dis- 
consolate wife,  followed  by  her  three  fatherless  children,  re- 
turned from  the  grave  of  her  husband,  she  realized  that  she 
was  not  only  alone  in  the  world,  but  that  she  was  penniless 

—  literally  penniless. 

It  was  a  sad  thought  for  the  poor  woman.  Not  even  a 
short  season  of  mourning,  which  her  widowed  heart  craved, 
could  be  allowed  her.  Her  children  must  not  starve,  and 
there  was  no  bread  in  the  house. 

Her  neighbors,  suspecting  her  situation,  were  kind  to  her, 
and  sent  in  provisions  in  abundance ;  but  instinctively  she 
shrunk  from  the  mortifying  alternative  of  accepting  charity. 

Poor  woman !  what  could  she  do  ?  How  could  she  sup- 
port her  fatherless  children  ?  She  had  no  wealthy  relatives 

—  she  was  from  the  house  of  poverty  herself.     But  she  could 
not  live  on  charity. 

The  village  in  which  she  resided  was  a  large  place,  and 
though  she  was  too  proud  to  accept  a  gift,  she  was  not  too 
proud  to  solicit  work.  "With  her  eyes  yet  red  with  weeping 
over  her  husband's  bier,  she  called  upon  several  wealthy  fam- 
ilies to  ask  for  their  washing. 

It  was  given  her,  and  she  began  to  feel  a  certain  sense  of 
independence  again,  as  she  returned  with  her  bundles  of 
clothes  to  her  desolate  home. 

All  she  could  do  was  given  her ;  and  with  a  severe  struggle, 
she  was  able  to  support  herself  and  children,  and  refused  any 
overtures  of  aid  which  were  made  her  by  her  neighbors. 
Mrs.  Brown  attempted  to  assist  her  friend,  in  a  delicate  way,, 
but  without  success.  Mrs.  Jones  toiled  on  with  all  her 


ZIFE    INSURANCE.  161 

strength  and  energy,  preferring  independence  to  every  other 
consideration. 

But  it  soon  became  evident  to  her  neighbors  that  her 
health  was  suffering  severely  from  this  unremitting  toil. 
Remonstrances  were  in  vain ;  and  ere  another  six  months  had 
rolled  away,  Mrs.  Brown  was  watching  over  the  dying  bed 
of  her  friend.  Little  children,  not  old  enough  to  understand 
their  lonely  condition,  were  gathered  around  it  to  receive  the 
parting  KISS  of  a  dying  mother. 

Poor  orphans  !  God  will  take  care  of  you,  though  all  the 
world  be  cold  and  cruel !  Ye  shall  not  find  another  mother, 
but  the  Father  of  the  fatherless  shall  watch  over  and  protect 
you. 

She  died,  and  they  placed  her  by  the  side  of  her  husband, 
over  whose  grave  the  grass  had  not  yet  grown.  The  hard 
lot  of  poverty  had  hurried  her  into  that  early  grave.  The 
want  of  a  few  of  those  dollars  which  the  gay  and  heartless 
thoughtlessly  squander  by  the  thousand,  had  carried  her 
down  to  that  bourn  where  there  is  no  sorrow,  and  the  weary 
are  at  rest. 

The  orphans  were  carried  to  the  poorhouse.  Life  was  a 
desert  to  them.  Home  was  no  more.  Love  was  in  the  cold 
grave. 

Was  Jones  right,  or  was  he  wrong  ?  Would  not  that 
boon  of  our  progressive  age,  life  insurance,  have  averted 
some  part  of  this  long  list  of  calamities  ?  Would  it  not  have 
saved  a  mother's  life  ?  Would  it  not  have  redeemed  those 
lonely  orphans  from  the  degradation  and  neglect  of  the  poor- 
house  ? 

It  could  not  have  saved  Jones's  life,  but  it  could  have  been 
a  blessing  to  his  family  —  a  blessing  that  would  have  reached 
14* 


162  LIFE    INSTTRANCE. 

down  to  distant  generations.  It  might  have  saved  a  home, 
and  more,  far  more  than  all  beside,  a  devoted  mother,  to 
those  fatherless  little  ones. 

Brown,  too,  has  gone  to  his  rest.  But  his  death  entailed 
none  of  the  miseries  upon  his  family,  which  were  the  lot  of 
Jones's.  His  widow  is  a  frugal  and  industrious  woman  ;  but 
labor  is  her  helpmate  —  her  husband  now ;  she  is  not  the 
slave  of  toil.  Brown  left  her  the  POOB  MAN'S  LEGACY. 


LAST  DAY  OF   GRACE; 

OB, 

MR.  LAWTON'S  MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  I  CAN'T  stand  it  any  longer,  Lottie ;  I  won't  have  her  in 
the  house  ! "  exclaimed  Samuel  Lawton  to  his  wife. 

"  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it,  Samuel  ?  You 
surely  wouldn't  have  me  turn  my  own  mother  into  the 
street." 

"  No,  no  —  not  exactly  that ;  but  can't  you  give  her  a 
hint  that  she  has  staid  long  enough  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't,  Samuel,"  replied  the  young  wife,  with 
a  sad  and  troubled  look  on  her  pretty  face.  "  I  don't  see 
why  you  should  be  so  prejudiced  against  her." 

"  Don't  you,  my  dear  ?  Do  you  think  it  is  pleasant  for 
me  to  have  one  continually  telling  me  I  am  extravagant,  or 
something  of  that  sort  ?  She  told  me  just  now  that  I  could 
not  afford  to  buy  turkeys  for  our  Sunday  dinner,  when  she 
saw  me  bring  one  home." 

"  She  meant  right,  Samuek" 

"  But  it  is  none  of  her  business,  Lottie." 

"  She  is  older  and  more  experienced  in  these  matters  than 
we  are." 

(163) 


164  I-A%T   DAT    OF    GEACE. 

"  Fudge  !  Do  you  believe,  Lottie,  that  I  don't  know  my 
own  business  a  great  deal  better  than  she  or  any  one  else 
can  teach  me  ?  "  and  the  young  husband  put  on  a  look  of 
dignity  which  showed  how  deeply  conscious  he  was^of  his 
own  ability. 

"  I  hope  you  do,  Samuel,"  replied  Lottie,  who,  as  can 
easily  be  supposed,  was  sorely  perplexed  by  the  difficulties 
of  her  unfortunate  position. 

Poor  thing  !  She  was  a  gentle-hearted,  kind,  and  tender 
woman,  and  loved  her  mother  as  truly  as  becomes  a  married 
daughter.  She  was  conscious  that  her  mother  had  her  pe- 
culiarities, —  as  who  has  not  ?  —  and  it  was  a  source  of  con- 
tinued regret  to  her  that  her  husband  could  neither  under- 
stand nor  bear  with  them. 

They  had  been  married  about  a  year  and  a  half.  Samuel 
Lawton  was  a  merchant  on  a  small  scale.  His  employer  had 
set  him  up  in  business  about  a  year  before  his  marriage,  and 
he  had  done  well ;  that  is,  above  his  expenses  he  had  cleared 
some  eight  hundred  or  a  thousand  dollars,  which  was  con- 
sidered a  very  fair  income  for  a  young  man. 

The  young  merchant  was  elated  with  his  success,  and,  like 
very  many  others  in  his  situation,  felt  that  he  was  an  enter- 
prising young  man,  and  a  thorough  financier.  The  road  to 
wealth  was  before  him,  and  already  he  had  formed  a  very 
clear  idea  of  being  at  the  head  of  a  large  importing  house, 
with  clerks  and  lumpers  by  the  dozen  at  his  command.  His 
fancy  also  gilded  the  picture  with  a  very  costly  mansion  on 
Pemberton  Hill,  with  a  carriage  gnd  two  sleek  horses,  a  foot- 
man, and  opera,  concerts,  and  great  parties  to  match. 

Samuel  Lawton  formerly  belonged  to  a  "  debating  society," 
in  which  the  question  of  "  early  marriages  "  had  been  thor« 


LAST   DAT    OF    GRACE.  165 

oughly  discussed.  The  chairman  had  appointed  him  to  sus- 
tain the  affirmative  ;  and  either  on  account  of  the  skill  and 
eloquence' with  which  he  argued  the  point,  or  because  the 
members  were  in  favor  of  matrimony  at  the  earliest  possible 
day,  it  was  decided  that  early  marriages  were  eminently  con- 
ducive to  the  morality  and  happiness  of  mankind  in  general. 

One  of  the  strongest  arguments  which  our  hero  could  offer 
in  support  of  his  cause  was,  that  matrimony  would  save  the 
young  man  from  early  dissipation.  He  even  went  so  far  in 
his  zeal  as  to  declare  that  a  young  man,  even  if  he  had  not  a 
penny  in  the  world,  had  better  be  married  than  wait  till  he 
had  the  means.  I  will  not  trouble  the  reader  with  the  facts 
and  statistics  by  which  he  made  it  appear  that  it  was  cheaper 
to  support  man  and  wife  than  to  support  man  alone.  But 
the  best  evidence  he  could  give  of  his  devotion  to  his  philos- 
ophy was  to  get  married  himself ;  and  accordingly,  though 
he  had  not  the  means  of  furnishing  his  house,  and  though 
he  was  still  deeply  in  debt  for  his  stock,  he  took  a  wife  in 
the  person  of  the  youngest  and  last  remaining  daughter  of  a 
•widow  lady,  possessing  a  little  property  in  her  own  right. 

Of  course  the  young  man  had  to  run  in  debt  for  all  the 
appurtenances  of  housekeeping ;  but  this  was  nothing ;  he 
was  doing  well.  It  made  no  difference  how  much  a  man 
owed,  provided  he  had  the  means  to  pay.  He  was  very  san- 
guine of  his  future  success.  His  profits  would  be  at  least  a 
thousand  dpllars  a  year ;  but,  reckless  fellow,  he  had  no 
more  idea  how  far  a  thousand  dollars  would  go  than  a  baby. 
It  seemed  to  him  a  very  large  sum,  and  he  gauged  his  do- 
mestic expenditures  on  a  pretty  high  scale. 

When  he  married  Mrs.  Harding's  last  remaining  daughter, 
the  widow  was  left  alone.  Lottie  said  it  would  be  so  nice 


166  LAST   DAY    OF    GRACE. 

to  have  her  "  dear  mother  "  with  her,  and  accordingly  Sam- 
uel had  invited  her  to  make  his  house  her  home. 

The  good  lady  was  in  the  main  a  very  clever  sort  of  person, 
who  probably  talked  quite  as  bad,  possibly  a  little  worse,  than 
she  meant.  She  saw  that  her  son-in-law  was  going  too  fast, 
and,  in  her  own  way,  she  made  such  comments  as  she  deemed 
it  the  duty  of  a  faithful  mother-in-law  to  make. 

Mr.  Lawton  did  not  relish  what  he  deemed  her  interfer- 
ence. He  was  very  clear  in  his  own  way,  and  to  have  a 
woman  dictate  to  him,  and  croak  about  the  possible  result  of 
his  lavish  expenditure,  was  intolerable ;  and  when  his  pa- 
tience was  thoroughly  exhausted,  he  spoke  to  his  wife  upon 
the  subject,  as  we  have  written. 

Truth  has  been  compared  to  a  two-edged  sword,  though  it 
is  generally  believed  that  one  edge  to  the  sinner  is  sufficient- 
ly uncomfortable.  Samuel  Lawton  had  listened  to  his  moth- 
er-in-law's good  advice,  to  her  suggestions  on  the  economy 
of  the  household,  for  more  than  a  year,  and  Mrs.  Lawton 
could  not  but  wonder  what  it  was  that  made  her  husband  so 
"  touchy"  about  it  just  now.  He  had  always  turned  off  the 
point  of  her  rebuke  with  a  jest ;  but  now  he  looked  sour, 
and  actually  wanted  to  get  her  mother  out  of  the  house. 

The  fact  was,  the  young  merchant  had  just  begun  to  find 
out  that  a  thousand  dollars  a  year  would  not  "  keep  house  " 
like  a  nabob.  Certain  notes  were  about  to  fall  due,  and 
little  debts  without  number  had  been  contracted.  The  un- 
pleasant truth  began  to  dawn  upon  him  that  he  was  going 
faster  than  his  means  would  permit. 

In  view  of  the  consequences,  he  could  already  hear  Mrs. 
Harding's  triumphant  "  I  told  you  so."  He  had  resolved  to 
reduce  his  expenses,  to  give  over  roast  turkeys  for  his  Sunday 


LAST   DAT    OF    GBACE.  167 

dicner,  and  come  down  to  plain,  old-fashioned  pork  and 
be'ans  ;  but  the  idea  of  giving  in  that  the  odious  mother-in- 
law  was  in  the  right  was  not  to  be  harbored.  He  had  post- 
poned the  contemplated  retrenchment  till  those  said  certain 
notes  began  to  cast  ominous  shadows  in  his  pathway.  It 
must  be  done,  and  Mrs.  Harding's  presence  became  doubly 
troublesome. 

CHAPTER    II. 

THE  poor,  despised  mother-in-law  was  so  unfortunate  as 
to  overhear  some  portion  of  the  conversation  which  so  near- 
ly concerned  her ;  and  the  consequence  was,  that  in  less  than 
a  week  after,  she  left  the  house,  bag  and  baggage,  for  the 
home  of  another  daughter,  who  had  repeatedly  pressed  her 
to  come  and  live  with  her. 

Mrs.  Harding  might  have  been  provoked  with  her  son-in- 
law,  but  she  prudently  held  her  tongue,  and  made  no  men- 
tion of  the  reason  for  her  sudden  departure. 

Samuel  felt  quite  a  relief  the  very  hour  she  left,  and  in  the 
evening,  while  they  were  seated  in  the  little  parlor,  the  baby 
sleeping  in  the  crib  between  them,  he  was  so  ungenerous 
and  unkind  as  to  express  himself  to  this  effect. 

"  But,  Samuel,  you  can't  think  how  lonesome  I  shall  be ; 
you  are  in  town  all  day,"  said  the  poor  wife. 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  will  be  for  a  few  days ;  but  you  will 
get  used  to  it." 

Mrs.  Lawton  sighed. 

"  And  then,"  continued  Mr.  Lawton,  "  you  have  the  baby 
to  occupy  the  time." 

Just  then  there  came  from  the  cradle  a  single  rough,  ring- 


1<68  I-AST    DAY    OF    GKACE. 

ing  cough  —  that  peculiar,  metallic-sounding  cough  which  ia 
like  the  knell  of  death  to  the  ear  of  the  loving  mother. 

"  O  n^rcy !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lawton,  in  tremulous  tones, 
as  she  sprang  to  the  side  of  the  cradle. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Lottie  ?  "  asked  Samuel. 

"  Didn't  you  hear  that  cough  ?  "  and  the  poor  mother's 
frame  trembled,  and  her  teeth  chattered  with  alarm. 

"  I  suppose  Sammy  has  got  a  little  cold." 

*'  It's  the  croup,  Samuel !  Do  run  for  the  doctor  as  quick 
as  you  can." 

"  To-night  ? " 

"  0  Samuel,  he  may  be  dead  before  morning  !  '*  and  the 
tears  coursed  freely  down  the  cheek  of  the  anxious  mother. 

"  Nay,  Lottie,  you  are  nervous." 

"  I  know  it ;  but  do  go  for  the  doctor." 

"  I  will  go  if  there  is  any  need  of  it ;  but,  really,  I  do  not 
see  that  there  is  ;  "  and  Samuel  bent  over  the  cradle  to  dis- 
cover what  had  so  alarmed  his  wife. 

But  the  child  still  slept,  and  apparently  breathed  as  freely 
as  ever. 

"  Nay,  Samuel,  go ;  you  know  what  the  croup  is." 

"  Certainly,  I  will  go  if  you  wish  ;  "  and  the  young  hus- 
band put  on  his  overcoat  and  left  the  house. 

The  residence   of  the  young  merchant  was  in  D ,  a 

town  adjoining  Boston,  and  the  physician's  house  was  full 
half  a  mile  distant.  He  could  hardly  restrain  a  smile  at  the 
idea  of  going  for  a  doctor  when  the  baby  had  only  coughed 
once. 

„  Dr.  F was  fortunately  at  home,  and  the  two  pro- 
ceeded on  their  return  together.  The  physician  considered 
the  case  much  more  serious  than  the  inexperienced  father  had 
deemed  it. 


LAST   DAT   OF    GEACE.  169 

On  their  arrival,  they  found  the  child  awake.  The  little 
patient  was  breathing  laboriously,  and  occasionally  that 
brazen  cough  rang  from  his  throat. 

"  Croup !  "  said  the  doctor,  the  moment  he  entered  the 
room. 

"  O  doctor,  do  you  think  he  will  die  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
agonized  mother. 

"  No,  no,  no  !  "^replied  Dr.  F ,  confidently. 

The  physician  was  a  good-natured,  good-hearted  German, 
who  was  thoroughly  master  of  his  profession.  He  had  been 
eminently  successful  in  his  practice,  especially  with  children, 
and  his  words  were  like  oil  upon  the  troubled  waters  to  the 
anxious  mother. 

"  I  am  so  frightened,  doctor!  " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  fear ;  we  have  the  case  in  season, 
and  there  is  no  danger.  Suppose  you  wait  till  to-morrow 
morning  before  you  call  me  ?  I  shrug  my  shoulders,  and 
tell  you  the  child  must  die." 

"  O  Samuel !  "  exclaimed  Lottie,  looking  at  her  husband. 

Mr.  Lawton  was  appalled  by  the  significant  .words.  His 
frame  shook  with  terror.  The  child  was  his  idol.  He  knew 
nothing  of  the  symptoms  of  the  insidious  and  terrible  dis- 
ease that  menaced  the  life  of  his  darling  little  one  ;  he  was 
nervous  and  uneasy.  Death  seemed  to  cast  a  broad  shadow 
upon  his  home. 

The  doctor  gave  the  child  a  little  white  powder,  and  placed 
some  bandages  wet  in  cold  water  upon  its  throat  and  chest. 
The  effect  was  instantaneous  ;  the  child  instantly  breathed 

easier.     Leaving  the  necessary  medicines,  Dr.  F took 

his  leave,  assuring  the  anxious  parents  that  the  little  one 
would  be  nearly  well  Ly  morning. 
15 


170  I-AST   DAY   OF   GRACE. 

But  Mr.  Lawton  was  uneasy,  and  Lottie  was  uneasy.  An 
undefinable  dread  had  taken  possession  of  their  hearts. 
Samuel  Fas  troubled.  The  child  breathed  with  a  -sad, 
groaning  sound,  which  shook  every  fibre  in  the  nervous 
system  of  the  father  and  mother.  He  was  conscious  of 
their  inexperience ;  the  child  might  relapse,  and  symptoms 
which  they  did  not  understand  might  appear. 

"  How  I  wish  mother  was  here,  SamueJ  !  "  said  poor  Lot- 
tie, awed  by  the  fearful  responsibility  that  rested  upon  her. 

Mr.  Lawton  had  wished  so  before,  and  thought  if  he 
once  more  had  her  in  the  house,  he  would  give  the  world 
to  keep  her  there  —  mothers-in-law  are  so  exceedingly  useful 
at  times ! 

Samuel  made  no  reply.  Even  in  his  terrible  anxiety  for 
the  life  of  his  child,  pride  had  not  entirely  deserted  him. 

Lottie  shed  a  flood  of  tears.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  her  husband  seemed  cold  and  unfeeling,  and  it  was 
cruel  in  him  not  to  second  her  wish  in  such  an  hour  of  trial. 

"  If  he  should  grow  worse,  Samuel !  "  continued  the  poor 
wife.  "  0,  I  am  so  fearful !  " 

"  I  will  go  for  your  mother  if  you  wish,"  replied  Mr. 
Lawton,  the  anguish  of  his  wife  getting  the  mastery  of  his 
feelings. 

"  She  has  got  cold ;  I  don't  know  as  she  would  dare  to 
come  out  in  the  night  air/' 

"  I  will  try,  at  least." 

Mr.  Lawton  left  the  house.  Mrs.  Harding's  new  home 
was  not  far  off.  He  succeeded  in  rousing  her,  and,  in  spite 
of  her  cold,  she  was  ready  in  five  minutes  to  accompany  him. 

His  heart  smote  him  as  he  thought  how  hard  he  had  been 
upon  her  —  how  he  had  almost  attempted  to  drive  her  from 


LAST   DAT   OP    GRACE.  171 

his  roof;  and  in  his  soul  he  thanked  God  that  she  did  not 
know  how  mean  he  had  been. 

Her  advice  had  been  good.  She  had  spoken  to  him  for 
his  interest,  not  for  her  own  ;  and  if  she  had  not  spoken  it 
exactly  as  he  wished,  why,  it  was  only  because  she  was  hu- 
man, and  had  infirmities,  like  all  the  rest  of  mankind. 

In  the  moment  of  peril  and  trial,  he  felt  what  a  blessing 
it  was  to  have  a  mother-in-law. 

Mrs.  Harding  soon  comforted  Lottie.  She  understood 
the  case,  and  perceived  that  the  danger  was  past.  Her  pres- 
ence was  like  that  of  an  angel.  It  restored  the  drooping 
spirits  of  the  devoted  parents,  and  by  midnight,  worn  out 
with  anxiety,  they  went  to  sleep  by  the  side  of  the  child, 
whose  slumbers,  though  troubled,  were  deep  and  sound. 

The  next  morning,  as  Dr.  F had  predicted,  Sammy 

was  nearly  well,  and  Mr.  Lawton  went  to  his  business  as 
usual ;  but  there  was  trouble  brewing  around  him.  He 
spent  nearly  all  the  forenoon  in  vain  attempts  to  raise  the 
money  to  meet  one  of  his  notes  which  came  due  that  day. 
He  was  unsuccessful,  and,  worn  out  and  dispirited  by  his 
anxiety  on  the  previous  night,  he  gave  up  in  despair,  and 
went  home,  resolved  to  let  the  note  be  protested. 

"  You  come  home  early,  Samuel,"  said  his  wife. 

The  young  merchant  made  no  reply,  but  threw  himself, 
•with  a  heavy  sigh,  into  a  chair. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Samuel  ?  " 

"  I  am  ruined,  Lottie  !  "  replied  he,  gloomily.  "  I  must 
fail.  This  is  the  last  day  of  grace,  and  I  have  left  a  note  to 
be  protested." 

Lottie  was  appalled  by  this  intelligence.  Mrs.  Harding, 
who  sat  by  the  fire,  holding  little  Sammy,  merely  glanced  at 


172  LAST   DAY    OF    GEACE. 

him.  She  did  not  use  those  awful  words,  "  I  knew  it  would 
be  so." 

"  Mother,  you  were  right ;  I  have  been  too  fast,"  said 
Mr.  Lawton,  gazing  sheepishly  at  her.  "  I  thought  very 
hard  of  you  for  telling  me  I  lived  better  than  I  could  afford ; 
but  you  were  right ;  I  may  as  well  own  it." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Samuel.  How  much  is  the  note  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Harding,  with  a  gentle  look  —  a  look  so  kind  and 
forgiving  that  it  wrung  his  soul. 

"  Eight  hundred  dollars,"  replied  Lawton. 

"  Will  you  take  the  baby  a  moment,  Lottie  ?  "  continued 
Mrs.  Harding,  who,  giving  Sammy  into  the  hands  of  his 
mother,  went  to  the  secretary,  and  wrote  a  check  on  her 
bank  for  the  amount. 

"  Why,  mother,  you  wrong  yourself,"  exclaimed  the  as- 
tonished Lawton,  as  she  handed  him  the  check. 

"  Take  it,  Samuel ;  pay  your  note,  and  live  and  learn," 
replied  she,  with  a  benignant  smile. 

Lawton  took  the  money,  and  hastened  back  to  the  city  to 
pay  his  note.  His  credit  was  saved,  and  hope  again  smiled 
upon  him. 

In  the  course  of  conversation  that  evening,  Lawton  was 
BO  far  humiliated  as  to  make  this  remark,  — 

"  Mother,  you  will  come  and  live  with  us  again,  won't 
you  ?  " 

"  What !  after  you  have  wished  me  out  of  the  house  ?  " 
replied  Mrs.  Harding,  with  a  smile.  "  I  heard  your  conver- 
sation the  other  day." 

"  Forgive  me,  mother." 

"  Perhaps,  Samuel,  I  am  not  always  just  as  I  ought  to  be ; 
but  we  all  have  our  weaknesses.  I  mean  to  do  right." 


EAST    DAT    OF    GRACE.  173 

"  I  know  you  do ;  I  understand  you  now.  Last  night  and 
to-day  have  taught  me  your  value  ;  and  if  I  had  heeded 
your  counsel,  I  need  not  have  been  pressed  for  money  to- 
day. Forgive  me,  mother." 

"  Freely,  Samuel.  I  live  only  to  make  my  children 
happy." 

Mrs.  Harding  resumed  her  residence  at  Lottie's,  and  from 
that  time  to  this  she  has  been  appreciated.  Mr.  Lawton 
learned  a  lesson.  The  long  proposed  retrenchment  was  ex- 
ecuted, and  the  prospect  now  is  that  he  will  die  a  rich  man, 
if  he  don't  die  too  soon. 

We  were  provoked  to  write  this  sketch  by  that  con- 
temptible squib  from  Punch,  to  the  effect  that  Adam  was 
a  happy  man  because  he  had  no  mother-in-law.  If  Cain 
or  Abel,  in  their  babyhood,  had  the  croup,  measles,  whoop- 
ing cough,  or  any  thing  of  that  sort,  we  warrant  he  sighed 
for  that  sq  aib-ridden,  conundrum-defamed  commodity  —  a 

MOTHEB-IN  -LATV. 

15* 


MONTAGUE   AND    LADY. 

A     LESSON     FOB     HUSBANDS. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  ANOTHEK  new  dress !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Simeon  Montague 
to  his  wife.  "  It  does  not  seem  to  be  more  than  three  weeks 
since  you  had  one." 

"  Just  two  months,  Simeon." 

"  And  you  need  another  ?  " 

"  I  should  not  ask  for  the  money  if  I  did  not.  And  Franky 
must  have  a  new  jacket,  and  Nellie  a  new  cloak." 

Mr.  Montague  sighed. 

"  I  gave  you  fifteen  dollars  only  a  few  weeks  ago." 

"  What  is  fifteen  dollars  ?  Do  you  think  it  will  clothe 
me  and  the  children  a  year  ?  "  replied  Mrs.  Montague  in- 
dignantly. 

"  Money  comes  hard,"  suggested  Mr.  Montague. 

"  I  suppose  it  does  ;  but  if  you  wish  me  and  the  children 
to  go  half  clothed,  why,  only  say  so." 

"  Of  course,  I  wish  nothing  of  the  kind ;  I  only  want  you 
to  be  as  prudent  as  possible." 

"  I  intend  to  be  so." 

"  These  are  dreadful  tight  times." 

"  I  should  think  they  were,"  replied  the  lady,  with  a  pal- 

(174) 


MONTAGUE    AXI)    LADY.  175 

pable  sneer  on  her  lip.  "  They  have  been  just  so,  though, 
ever  since  we  have  been  married." 

"  "Won't  next  week  do  ?  " 

"  I  engaged  a  dressmaker  for  next  Friday." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  spare  fifteen  dollars  to-day,"  said 
Mr.  Montague,  musing,  apparently,  upon  his  financial  affairs. 
"  I  have  a  note  to  pay  to-day." 

"  You  have  had  a  note  to  pay  every  time  I  have  asked  you 
for  money  since  we  were  married."  • 

"  I  will  try  and  have  it  for  you  to-morrow." 

"  I  wan't  to  go  out  shopping  to-day  ;  I  can't  go  to-morrow." 

"  I  cannot  possibly  spare  it  to-day.  Won't  ten  dollars 
answer  your  purpose  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  can  make  it  do." 

"  If  you  can,  I  wish  you  would,"  replied  the  husband,  as 
he  took  out  his  pocket  book  and  handed  her  that  amount. 

"  I  can  only  get  a  calico  for  myself." 

"Well,  won't  that  answer?" 

"  Are  you  willing  to  go  to  church  with  me  with  a  calico 
dress  on  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  dear.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  had  some  pride." 

"  I  have,  but  no  foolish  pride." 

"  A  twenty-five  dollar  coat  is  hardly  good  enough  for  you 
to  wear  to  church." 

"  But  I  don't  have  one  every  month." 

"  You  have  two  every  year." 

Mr.  Montague  did  not  think  it  was  prudent  to  say  any 
more  ;  and  putting  on  his  hat,  which  he  had  just  been  brush- 
ing with,  the  most  scrupulous  care,  he  surveyed  his  person 
before  the  looking  glass.  His  collar  needed  a  little  elevat- 


176  MONTAGUE    AND    LADY. 

ing,  his  cravat  had  to  be  readjusted,  and  he  discovered  a 
speck  of  dirt  on  his  black  coat,  which  was  carefully  removed. 
His  lady  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  as  he  stood  before  the 
glass. 

"  Calico  dress,  indeed ! "  thought  she.  "  There  is  not  a 
prouder  man  walks  Washington  Street  than  my  husband." 

Mr.  Montague  smoothed  down  his  whiskers,  and  was 
leaving  the  room,  when  a  gentleman  wishing  to  see  him  was 
announced. 

"  Ah,  Butler,"  said  he,  as  the  gentleman  entered  the 
room. 

"  I  called  at  your  store  yesterday,  but  did  not  find  you," 
said  Butler,  handing  him  a  little  paper. 

*'  Just  so,"  said  he,  opening  it. 

Mrs.  Montague  was  impertinent  enough  to  look  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  read  the  paper.  It  ran  as  follows  :  — 

"  Mr.  Simeon  Montague 

To  Apollo  Club  Rooms,  Dr. 

To  your  Quarterly  Assessment,  $25,00 

"  1  Basket  Heidsick  Champagne,  16,00 

"  100  Concha  Cigars,  4,00 


$45,00 
Received  Payment, 

B.  BUILEB,  Steward." 

"  Just  so,"  repeated  Mr.  Montague,  throwing  the  bill  on 
the  table,  and  taking  out  his  pocket  book.  Sorry  to  trouble 
you ;  meant  to  have  paid  it  last  night." 

"'No  tiouble  at  all,"  replied  Butler. 


MONTAGUE   AND   LADY.  177 

*'  Forty-five,  is  it  ?  "  continued  Montague,  as  lie  counted 
out  the  money. 

"  Forty-five." 

The  steward  of  the  "  Apollo  Club  Rooms  "  put  the  money 
in  his  pocket,  and  bade  his  liberal  patron  good  morning. 

"  It  was  too  bad  to  make  him  call  twice  for  that  money, 
wasn't  it,  Simeon  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Montague,  when  the  steward 
had  gone. 

"  Of  course  I  was  sorry  to  give  him  any  unnecessary 
trouble,"  replied  Mr.  Montague. 

"  I  thought  you  had  a  note  to  pay  to-day  ?  " 

"  So  I  have." 

"  But  can't  you  spare  me  the  other  five  dollars  for  which 
I  asked  you  ?  " 

"  Can't,  possibly." 

"  I  think  your  family  ought  to  receive  as  much  considera- 
tion as  the  Club  House,  at  least." 

"  I  must  go  to  the  store,  my  dear  ;  I  am  in  a  great  hurry." 

"  Sixteen  dollars  for  champagne,"  said  the  wife,  reading 
from  the  bill,  which  she  had  picked  up  from  the  table.  "  I 
only  asked  for  fifteen." 

"  You  would  not  have  me  niggardly  at  the  Club  Rooms, 
<vould  you  ?  " 

"  I  would  not  have  you  go  there  at  all.  I  suppose  it  is 
nothing  to  be  niggardly  in  your  family  ?  " 

"  Am  I  niggardly  ?  "   asked  Mr.  Montague,  rather  sternly. 

The  lady  was  silent. 

"  One  would  think  that  I  was  made  of  money,  by  the  way 
you  ask  me  for  it,"  continued  Mr.  Montague. 

"  One  would  think  you  were,  to  see  you  paying  forty-five 
dollars  a  quarter  at  the  Club  House,"  replied  Mrs.  Montague, 
meekly.  "  A  married  man  too." 


178  MONTAGUE    AND    1ADY. 

"  I  wasn't  born  to  be  tied  to  a  woman's  apron  string," 
added  Mr.  Montague,  rushing  from  the  house. 

The  lady  looked  at  the  door  which  had  just  closed  upon 
him.  Her  heart  was  sad,  and  she  burst  into  tears. 


CHAPTER    II. 

MB.  SIMEON  MONTAGUE  thought  the  money  he  bestowed 
upon  his  family  was  as  good  as  wasted.  He  was  not  a  do- 
mestic man.  He  had  married  his  wife,  with  a  reasonable 
show  of  affection,  because  her  father  was  rich,  and  she  was 
an  only  daughter.  Of  course,  he  would  not  even  confess  to 
his  own  heart  that  he  was  so  selfish  and  cruel  as  to  marry 
for  sordid  motives  —  that  he  had  prostituted  the  holy  altar 
of  Hymen  by  sacrificing  to  Plutus  upon  it ;  but  it  was  none 
the  less  true  because  he  denied  it  to  himself  and  every  body 
else. 

Mrs.  Montague's  father  at  her  marriage  was  only  about 
forty-five  years  of  age  ;  yet  his  health  was  so  feeble  that  there 
was  not  one  chance  in  ten  of  his  living  another  year.  But 
the  old  gentleman  had  revived,  and  now,  after  twelve  years 
had  expired,  seemed  to  be  completely  rejuvenated.  He  was 
hale  and  hearty,  and  gave  the  promise  of  living  twenty  years 
more.  Of  course  the  sordid  son-in-law  was  disappointed. 
He  had  thrown  himself  into  the  sea  of  matrimony  with  an 
unworthy  motive,  and  if  he  had  been  drowned  there  it  would 
have  served  him  just  right. 

Poor  Mrs.  Montague  !  her  bright  hopes  were  all  wrecked. 
Instead  of  the  world  of  affectipn  she  had  anticipated  in  the 
connubial  relation,  she  found  nothing  but  coldness  and  sordid 


MONTAGUE    AND    LADY.  179 

selfishness.  Her  husband  still  frequented  the  Club  House  ; 
and  when  at  home,  he  seemed  to  have  no  sympathy  with  her. 
His  business  seemed  to  engross  all  his  attention,  and  he  had 
no  time  to  think  of  his  wife,  none  to  devote  to  his  children. 

Yet  Mr.  Montague  was  not  a  morose  or  an  ill-natured 
man.  He  loved  the  good  opinion  of  the  world,  and  would 
have  made  almost  any  sacrifice  rather  than  have  had  an  impu- 
tation cast  upon  his  domestic  character.  He  paid  the  most 
scrupulous  attention  to  all  the  forms  of  life,  walked  to  church 
every  Sunday  with  his  wife  on  his  arm,  always  found  the 
place  in  the  hymn  book  for  her,  and  never  failed  abroad  to 
manifest  the  most  lively  interest  in  his  family.  He  always 
called  his  wife  "  my  dear,"  and  spoke  affectionately  to  the 
children  in  the  presence  of  company. 

The  eye  of  affection  could  penetrate  all  this  mass  of  conven- 
tionalism, and  the  poor  wife,  in  less  than  a  year  after  her 
marriage,  realized  that  she  had  thrown  herself  away  upon  a 
hollow-hearted  man  —  one  who,  without  loving  her,  would 
keep  the  peace  at  almost  any  sacrifice  —  one  who  would 
compel  the  world  to  believe  that  he  was  the  most  tender  and 
devoted  husband,  even  while  his  heart  was  petrified  and  cold. 
His  devotion  was  mere  mechanism ;  it  was  a  kind  of  habit, 
acquired  by  an  active  desire  to  secure  the  good  will  of  all 
his  friends. 

Perhaps,  even  if  there  had  been  none  to  see  him,  Mr. 
Montague  would  not  have  been  harsh ;  it  was  not  his  nature. 
He  was  a  smooth-tongued,  plausible  man  under  all  circum- 
stances. He  could  appear  to  love  when  his  heart  was  per- 
fectly indifferent.  He  could  avoid  the  most  palpable  of  his 
domestic  duties  even  while  he  professed  the  most  earnest  de- 
votion to  the  welfare  of  his  family. 


180  MONTAGTJE    A.ND   LADY. 

Twelve  years  had  in  a  measure  reconciled  the  disappointed 
wife  to  her  lot.  She  was  contented  with  it  because  her 
maiden  visions  of  connubial  bliss  had  evaporated,  and  she 
knew  no  other  existence  than  that  to  which  she  had  been  so 
long  accustomed.  Her  air  castles,  reared  in  the  sunny  years 
of  her  girlhood,  had  long  since  tumbled  to  the  ground,  and 
left  her  in  a  world  of  reality,  cold  and  repulsive  at  first,  but 
rendered  tolerable  by  long  endurance. 

Her  husband  was  sordid  and  selfish.  He  never  felt  a 
hundred  dollars  expended  in  champagne  suppers  at  the  Club 
House  ;  but  half  that  sum  given  to  his  wife  wrung  his  soul. 
Though  he  was  in  a  good  business,  lived  in  good  style,  and 
always  had  money  at  his  command,  his  brow  always  dark- 
ened when  his  wife  asked  him  for  any  sum  to  be  expended 
upon  herself  or  her  children.  He  was  absolutely  unwilling 
to  give  it,  though  he  could  not  possibly  have  endured  the 
mortification  of  seeing  them  shabbily  dressed.  • 

Mr.  Montague  is  not  an  anomaly  among  men.  There  are 
thousands  as  sordid  and  inconsistent  as  he  was  —  thousands 
who  wish  to  have  their  wives  and  children  appear  well  in 
the  world,  and  at  the  same  time  deny  them  the  means  of 
doing  so. 

Mrs.  Montague  was  in  tears.  She  was  both  grieved  and 
provoked  at  the  conduct  of  her  husband.  The  promptness 
with  which  he  had  paid  his  Club  House  bill,  while  he  denied 
her  the  trifling  sum  she  had  asked,  was  a  sad  commentary  on 
his  devotion.  For  more  than  an  hour  she  thought  the  mat- 
ter over,  and  became  fully  assured  that  she  was  a  much- 
injured  wife.  Her  spirit  was  roused,  and,  putting  on  her 
bonnet,  she  left  the  house  to  do  her  shopping. 

The  calico  dress  her  husband  had  professed  to  think  was 


MONTAGUE    AND    LADY.  181 

good  enough  for  her  to  wear  to  church  Avas  purchased,  and 
before  Sunday  was  made  up. 

The  second  bells  were  ringing  for  church.  Mr.  Montague, 
elegantly  dressed,  was  all  ready,  and  stood  before  the  glass, 
contemplating  his  prepossessing  appearance. 

"Are  you  ready,  Ellen  ?  "  said  he,  calling  to  his  wife,  who 
was  up  stairs. 

"  I  shall  be  in  a  moment.  Walk  along  slowly  with 
Franky,  and  I  will  overtake  you,"  replied  she. 

Mr.  Montague  took  his  son  by  the  hand,  and  walked  up 
the  street.  He  looked  like  a  model  head  of  the  family  — 
so  benignant  and  dignified  on  that  Sabbath  morning. 

^His  wife  did  not  overtake  him  till  he  had  got  half  way  to 
church. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  what  have  you  got  on  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Montague,  when,  to  his  horror,  he  saw  her  clothed  in  a  com- 
mon calico  dress. 

"  My  new  calico,"  replied  she,  coolly,  as  she  took  his  arm. 

"  Are  you  mad,  Ellen  ?  " 

"  It  was  the  best  I  could  buy  with  the  money  you 
gave  me." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  to  church  in  that  shape  ?  " 

"  Why,  Simeon,  didn't  you  say  you  were  willing  to  go  to 
church  with  me  with  a  calico  dress  on  ?  " 

"  Pshaw !  Hadn't  you  sense  enough  to  see  that  I  was 
jesting?" 

"  Jesting  !  If  you  were,  it  was  the  first  time  I  ever  knew 
you  to  jest  in  your  own  house." 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Ellen." 

"  Come ;  we  shall  be  late,  and  all  the  folks  in  the  street 
are  staring  at  us." 

16 


182  MONTAGUE    AND    LADY. 

"  Staring  at  you.  What  a  ridiculous  figure  you  make  in 
that  attire  !  Your  Irish  girl  is  better  dressed  than  yo,u  are." 

"  I  can't  help  it." 

"  Pray,  go  home." 

"  I  am  going  to  church." 

"  Not  with  me,  Ellen,  in  that  plight." 

"  Then  I  leave  you,"  said  she,  taking  Franky  by  the  hand, 
and  continuing  her  walk. 

Mr.  Montague  was  bewildered.  It  was  a  very  awkward 
position  ;  but  the  natural  duplicity  of  his  character  came  to 
his  aid,  and,  placing  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  as  though 
suffering  a  severe  headache,  he  retraced  his  steps  homeward. 


CHAPTER    III. 

MR.  MONTAGTTE  was  greatly  incensed  at  the  conduct  of 
his  wife  ;  but  an  experience  of  a  dozen  years  had  fully  con- 
vinced her  that  her  husband  could  not  be  easily  reformed. 
During  that  long  period,  while  he  was  living  in  plenty,  was 
throwing  away  hundreds,  and  she  did  not  know  but  thou- 
sands, on  his  club,  his  champagne  suppers,  and  other  selfish 
gratifications,  she  had  found  it  exceedingly  difficult  to  wring 
from  his  hard  grasp  the  money  to  clothe  herself  and  children. 
To  ask  for  it  was  a  loathsome  task,  and  nothing  but  the  most 
urgent  necessity  could  induce  her  to  do  so. 

Much  as  her  husband  had  resented  her  conduct  on  the  oc- 
casion mentioned,  he  did  not  offer  the  means  of  supplying 
her  wants.  The  lady  had  become  so  disgusted  with  his  nig- 
gardly conduct  that  she  had  fully  determined  never  to  ask 
him  for  another  dollar.  Her  father  was  rich,  and  very 


MONTAGUE   AND    LADY.  183 

indulgent  to  her,  his  only  child.  To  him  she  disclosed  her 
grievances ;  and  though  it  was  repugnant  to  her  sense  of 
delicacy  to  speak  ill  of  her  husband,  she  gave  her  father  a 
complete  history  of  her  financial  experience.  The  old  gen- 
tleman was  exceedingly  indignant,  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
stormed  like  a  madman  at  the  sordid  character  of  his  son- 
in-law. 

"  But  don't  you  say  a  word  to  him,  pa,  nor  to  any  one 
else,"  pleaded  the  daughter. 

"  I  will  blow  him  sky  high !  He  shall  never  darken  my 
door  again ! " 

"  Nay,  nay,  pa,  for  my  sake,  do  not  mention  it." 

The  old  man  stopped  to  think. 

"  You  are  right,  Nellie  ;  not  a  word,"  said  he,  rubbing  his 
bald  head. 

"  It  would  sound  very  baa  abroad,  pa." 

"  So  it  would ;  but,  Nellie,  hand  me  that  book,  and  the 
pen  and  ink." 

The  daughter  obeyed,  and  the  old  gentleman  wrote  a 
hasty  note. 

"  Now  ring  the  beU,  Nellie." 

Mrs.  Montague  did  as  she  was  requested,  and  a  servant 
appeared. 

"  Here,  John,  take  that  to  No.  10  Court  Street,"  said  the 
old  gentleman,  as  he  opened  the  book  and  wrote  a  check  for 
five  hundred  dollars.  "  Now,  Nellie,  spend  it  as  fast  as  you 
can,  and  when  that  is  gone,  come  and  get  some  more." 

Mrs.  Montague  kissed  her  fond  father,  and  left  him  to 
ruminate  upon  the  astonishing  fact  which  had  been  revealed 
to  him. 

"  Not  give  her  any  money  !  "  muttered  he.  "  The  scoun- 
drel !  " 


184  MONTAGUE    AND   LADY. 

His  lips  were  frequently  compressed,  and  occasionally  he 
rose  and  strode  with  hasty  step  across  the  room.  The  arri- 
val of  the  lawyer  for  whom  he  had  sent  seemed  to  relieve 
him. 

Mrs.  Montague  appeared  the  next  Sunday  in  an  elegant 
brocade  silk,  a  new  bonnet,  and  a  most  magnificent  mantilla. 
Her  husband,  who  was  an  importer  and  jobber  of  dry  goods, 
could  readily  perceive  that  she  wore  at  least  two  hundred 
dollars  upon  her  person.  He  was  confounded.  She  had 
asked  him  for  no  money  lately.  He  was  uneasy.  What 
could  it  mean  ?  Mrs.  Montague  refused  to  answer  any 
questions. 

Six  months  passed  by,  and  the  lady  still  remained  inde- 
pendent of  her  husband.  She  always  had  money  in  abun- 
dance, but  she  positively  refused  to  converse  upon  the  sub- 
ject. Of  course  he  could  understand  that  her  father  furnished 
her  with  funds.  He  was  perplexed  to  discover  the  circum- 
stances under  which  he  supplied  her.  Had  his  wife  told  him 
that  she  was  refused  by  her  husband  ?  Had  she  been  to  her 
father  with  her  grievances  ?  He  would'  not  have  had  such  a 
thing  happen  for  all  the  world ;  his  reputation,  which  he 
valued  more  highly  than  his  integrity,  would  be  sacrificed. 
He  was  sorely  troubled. 

One  day,  about  this  time,  when  he  came  home  to  dinner, 
he  found  that  his  father-in-law  had  been  prostrated  by  an 
apoplectic  fit,  and  that  his  wife  had  gone  to  attend  him.  Be- 
fore he  could  finish  his  dinner,  a  messenger  announced  his 
death. 

Mr.  Montague  was  very  much  grieved,  of  course.  He 
mourned  in  bitterness  of  spirit  for  more  than  a  month  after 
the  funeral,  his  father-in-law  was*such  a  kindhearted,  noble 


MONTAGUE   AND   LADY.  185 

old  gentleman ;  he  thought  there  were  few  men  like  him  in 
the  world. 

Every  thing  went  on  as  usual  in  the  Montague  family. 
Not  a  word  was  said  about  the  large  property  of  the  de- 
ceased. Mr.  Montague  felt  some  delicacy  in  mentioning  the 
subject  to  his  wife,  and  no  one  else  appeared  to  know  any 
thing  about  the  business.  He  wondered  that  nothing  had 
been  said  to  him  about  being  executor  or  administrator.  Of 
course  he  was  the  only  proper  person  to  execute  this  trust. 

He  hinted  at  the  matter  as  broadly  as  he  dared ;  but  his 
wife  refused  to  take  the  hint.  One  morning,  however,  as  he 
was  looking  over  the  paper,  he  noticed  an  advertisement 
concerning  the  probate  of  the  will ;  he  pointed  it  out  to  his 
wife. 

"  Then  your  father  made  a  will  ?  "  said  he. 

"  He  did." 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  it ;  but  then  I  haven't  devoted  even 
a  thought  to  his  property.' 

Mrs.  Montague  looked  at  him. 

"  Your  father  was  one  of  the  best  of  men,"  continued  he, 
seriously. 

"  He  was." 

"  Did  you  learn  who  had  been  named  as  executor  ?  " 

"  My  uncle  John." 

"  Ah !  a  capital  selection ;  your  father  was  an  excellent 
business  man." 

"And  three  of  his  personal  friends  were  appointed 
trustees." 

"  Trustees ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Montague,  with  a  violent  start. 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  have  not  seen  the  will  ?  " 

"No." 

16* 


186  MONTAGUE    AND    LADY. 

"  I  have  a  copy  here,"  said  the  wife,  taking  the  document 
from  a  drawer. 

With  a  beating  heart,  Mr.  Montague  opened  the  copy,  and 
proceeded  to  read  it. 

His  cheek  blanched  and  his  lip  quivered  as  he  read.  The 
property  was  much  greater  than  he  had  ever  suspected, 
amounting  to  over  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  It  was  all 
secured  to  his  wife,  to  the  entire  exclusion  of  her  husband ; 
and  the  instrument  was  so  adroitly  drawn  up  that  he  could 

not  even  touch  the  income  of  the  estate  without  her  per- 

.    .  * 

mission. 

He  was  thunderstruck ;  his  matrimonial  hopes  were  all 
blasted,  and,  what  added  to  his  chagrin,  his  own  affairs,  in 
the  stringency  of  the  time,  had  become  hopelessly  em- 
barrassed. 

"  What  does  this  mean,  Ellen  ? "  asked  he,  in  a  husky 
voice. 

"  You  just  remarked  that  my  father  was  an  excellent  busi- 
ness man  ;  don't  you  understand  it  ?  " 

"  If  I  had  been  a  drunkard  or  a  gambler,  it  would  have 
been  plain  to  me.  As  it  is,  it  looks  like  an  entire  want  of 
confidence  in  me  on  the  part  of  your  deceased  father ;  not 
that  I  care  about  the  property,"  whined  Mr.  Montague. 

"  Of  course  you  don't  care  for  that." 

"  I  was  not  aware  before  that  your  father  was  prejudiced 
against  me.  Did  he  ever  mention  this  matter  ?  " 

Mrs.  Montague  was  silent,  and  the  husband  pressed  her 
por  an  answer. 

*'  There  was  something  said." 

"  What,  my  dear  ?  " 


MONTAGUE   AND    XADY.  187 

"  When  I  went  to  him  for  money,  of  course  that  led  to 
some  explanations." 

"You  went  to  him  for  money?  "  gasped  Mr.  Montague. 

"  I  could  not  get  it  from  you." 

Mr.  Montague  used  an  exceedingly  hard  word,  which  I  dare 
not  transfer  to  my  page,  and  rushed  out  of  the  house. 

In  a  month  he  failed,  —  made  a  bad  failure,  —  and  it  took 
him  a  year  to  get  out  of  the  difficulty.  The  assignees  had 
every  thing  ;  he  could  not  put  his  hand  upon  a  single  dollar. 
His  domestic  affairs  somehow  got  into  the  street,  and  no- 
body would  trust  him  ;  every  body  despised  him. 

But  Mrs.  Montague  was  not  so  sordid  as  he  had  been,  and 
when  he  had  received  a  discharge  from  his  debts,  she  fur- 
nished the  means  for  him  to  commence  business  again.  The 
club  and  champagne  suppers  are  abandoned ;  matters  are 
reversed.  The  lady  is  always  "  flush,"  the  gentleman  gen- 
erally short  ;  and,  poor  fellow,  he  is  sometimes  so  hard 
pressed  as  to  ask  her  for  a  few  hundred  dollars  "  to  help 
him  out." 


TAKING  THE  NEWSPAPERS. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  TAJIK  to  me  about  your  newspapers  !  I  tell  you,  neigh- 
bor Parker,  they  are  a  consarned  humbug ! "  exclaimed 
Farmer  Cheney. 

"  That's  a  great  mistake  of  yours,  neighbor.  For  my 
part,  I  would  rather  live  on  two  meals  a  day  than  be  with- 
out a  good  newspaper." 

"  Git  out !  I  wonder  what  the  world's  a  comin'  to. 
There's  my  gals  have  teased  me  to  take  Harper's  Magazine 
till  I  hadn't  any  peace  o'  my  life.  But  I  put  my  foot  right 
down  ;  you  can't  humbug  me  with  sich  trash  ;  "  and  Farmer 
Cheney  complacently  wiped  away  the  tobacco  juice  which 
was  streaming  down  from  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  You  are  in  the  wrong,  neighbor  Cheney." 

"No,  I  ain't,  nuther.  Then  Tom  wan't  satisfied,  and 
nothin'  would  do  but  I  must  take  the  American  Union  and 
the  Practical  Farmer.  But  it  wan't  no  use;  I  wouldn't 
have  the  trash  in  the  house,  say  nothin'  o'  wastin'  money 
on  it."  m 

"  Do  you  ever  read  the  papers  ?  " 

"  Me  !  no,  not  I ;  I've  got  a  better  use  for  m^  time." 

"  But  the  long  winter  evenings  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  allers  have  corn  to  shell." 

(188) 


TAKING   THE    NEWSPAPERS.  189 

"  Not  all  winter  ?  " 

•*  No ;  but  when  I  can't  find  no  work  to  do,  I'd  a  nuff 
sight  rather  set  in  the  corner,  and  go  to  sleep." 

"  But  your  son  Reuben  takes  the  papers." 

"Yes  ;  .but -I  never  brought  him  up  to  do  any  sich  thing. 
He  takes  the  Union  and  the  Farmer  both,  and  stews  his 
brains  over  'em  half  the  time.  That  ain't  the  wo'st  on't, 
nuther." 

"  No  evil  effects  have  followed  from  it,  I  trust?  " 

"  Yes,  there  has ;  there's  my  youngest  boy,  Tom,  read 
eunthin'  or  nuther  over  to  Reuben's  t'other  day  about  a 
« chance  for  young  men,'  and  nothin'll  do  but  he  must  go 
right  into  it ;  he's  off  to  Boston  next  week.  So  much  for 
havin'  newspapers  round." 

"  But  perhaps  he  may  improve  the  opportunity,  and  make 
money  by  it." 

"  No  sich  thing.  He's  got  two  hundred  dollars,  and  when 
that's  all  gone,  he'll  be  back  again ;  see  if  he  don't." 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"  Well,  my  mind's  made  tip  about  it ;  but  between  you 
and  I  and  the  side  of  that  gate  post,  I  wouldn't  mind  givin' 
Reuben  the  price  of  the  papers  if  he  only  wouldn't  take  'em." 

"  But  Reuben  has  the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the  best 
farmers  in  town." 

"  That's  all  true  enough ;  but  he  didn't  learn  how  to  farm 
it  from  his  newspapers,  let  me  tell  you.  He  was  brought  up 
in  the  good  old  way,  when  there  wan't  no  books  round  but 
the  Bible  and  the  almanac." 

"  You  will  grant  that  he  does  not  follow  all  the  old-fash- 
ioned methods  ?  " 

"  Well,  pooty  much  all ;  he's  got  some  notions  of  his  own, 
though." 


190  TAKING    THE    NEWSPAPERS. 

"  How  was  it  about  planting  com  in  rows,  neighbor 
Cheney  ?  " 

"  That's  one  of  Reuben's  notions,  to  plant  in  rows." 

"  And  he  got  seventy  bushels  to  the  acre,  you  know." 

"  Yes  ;  but  the  ashes  did  the  business." 

"  The  ashes,  the  rows,  and  the  cultivator,  between  them." 

"  Well,  there  ain't  no  doubt  but  what  that's  the  best  way 
to  raise  corn.  At  any  rate,  all  the  neighbors  foller  it  now." 

"  It  is  not  the  old-fashioned  way." 

"  N  o  ;  it's  Reuben's  way." 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  Reuben  got  it  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ;  not  from  your  darn  newspapers,  though." 

"  But  he  did." 

"  Git  out !  " 

"  It  is  a  fact." 

"  Now,  neighbor  Parker,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  them 
fellers  in  Boston,  that  never  saw  a  cornfield  in  their  life, 
can  tell  me  how  to  raise  corn,"  said  Farmer  Cheney,  a  little 
warmly. 

"  They  have  correspondents  all  over  the  country,  and  the 
subscribers  have  the  benefit  of  their  united  experience." 

"  Don't  believe  a  word  on't." 

But  it  was  no  use  arguing  the  matter,  and  the  two  farmers 
separated.  When  Farmer  Cheney  got  home,  he  found  a  visitor 
waiting  him 

* 

CHAPTER    II. 

"  I  UNDERSTOOD  you  had  a  large  quanity  of  corn  for 
sale,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  Well,  I've  got  consider'ble,  but  I  don't  care  no  great 
about  sellin'  it." 


TAKING    THE    NEWSPAPEBS.  191 

"  I  should  like  to  buy."    . 

"  I  can  spare  a  couple  o'  hund'ed  bushels  for  a  fair 
price." 

"  What  do  yon  ask  for  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  ]  how  is  corn  nowadays  ?  " 

"  Last  sales  in  Boston  were  sixty-eight  to  seventy  cents." 

"  Rather  low  ;  I  meant  to  git  seventy-one  for  mine,"  re- 
turned Farmer  Cheney,  who  was  disposed  to  be  shrewd. 

"  What  will  you  take  for  the  lot  ?  " 

"  Seventy-one." 

"  Say  seventy,  and  we  won't  stand  about  trifles." 

"  Can't  do  it ;  seventy-one  is  my  lowest  price,"  replied. 
Farmer  Cheney,  finding  that  he  had  got  an  available  cus- 
tomer. 

"  Split  the  difference,  and  it's  a  trade,"  said  the  stranger, 
nervously. 

"  Couldn't  do  it." 

"  I'll  take  it  then.  Give  me  a  receipt  for  this  cash  to  bind 
the  bargain." 

Farmer  Cheney,  congratulating  himself  on  the  good  trade 
he  had  made,  wrote  the  receipt  after  considerable  labor,  and 
put  the  money  in  his  pocket  book. 

"  Know  of  any  one  else  who  has  got  any  corn  to  sell  ?  " 

"  My  neighbor  Parker,  I  rather  guess,  has  got  some." 

"  You  won't  say  a  word  that  I  paid  you  seventy-one  for 
yours  ?  It  might  spoil  a  trade."  • 

"  Not  a  word,"  replied  Farmer  Cheney. 

Towards  night  our  two  farmers  happened  to  meet  again. 
"  Sold  your    corn    to-day,  neighbor   Parker  ?  "    inquired 
Farmer  Cheney. 


192  TAKING   THE    NEWSPAPERS. 

"Every  speck  of  it,"  replied  Parker. 

"  Did  you  ?     What  did  you  get  ?  " 

"  Eighty-one." 

"How  much?" 

"  Eighty-one." 

"  You  didn't,  though,  did  ye  ? "  exclaimed  the  man  who 
would  not  take  the  newspaper. 

"  That  is  just  what  I  got,  and  I  think  I  could  have  got 
eighty-two  if  I  had  stuck  a  little  longer." 

"  You  don't,  though  !  " 

"  The  same  man  hought  yours,  I  believe." 
•   "  Yes,"  replied  Farmer  Cheney,  edging  off. 

"  What  did  you  get  —  eighty-two  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  didn't  git  quite  that." 

"  O,  eighty-one.  Well,  after  all,  that  is  a  good  price, 
and  ten  cents  on  a  bushel  more  than  I  had  any  idea  of 
getting." 

"  I  did  not  get  eighty-one,"  replied  Farmer  Cheney, 
rather  crestfallen. 

He  did  not  like  to  deceive  his  neighbor ;  he  had  studied 
the  Bible  and  the  almanac  enough  to  know  better  than  that; 
but  it  came  "  dreadful  hard  "  to  own  up  the  truth. 

"  How  much  did  you  get  ?  " 

"  I  dar'aent  tell." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I've  got  took  in  if  the  feller  gave  you  eighty-one. 

"  What  did  you  get,  though,  neighbor  —  seventy-five  ?  " 

"  Seventy-one." 

"  Well,  you  have  been  taken  in,  then ;  I  guess  you  haven't 
heard  the  news." 

"No— what?" 


TAKING    THE   NEWSPAPERS.  193 

"  Crops  failed  in  the  west." 

"  How  you  talk !  " 

"  And  the  prospect  of  a  war  in  Europe ;  so  that  our 
breadstuffs  "will  be  extensively  exported,  which  run  up  the 
price  of  flour  and  grain." 

"  What  war  ?  " 

"  Between  Russia  and  Turkey." 

"  Turkey !  Well,  I  hope  them  cu'sed  Turks  will  get 
licked  !  "  exclaimed  Fanner  Cheney,  whose  ideas  were  some- 
what antiquated. 

"  You  differ  from  the  world  in  general.  The  sympathies 
of  all  civilized  nations  go  with  Turkey  in  this  quarrel." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  When  I  was  a  boy,  the  schoolmas- 
ter used  to  teach  us  to  hate  the  Turks.  They  are  a  bar- 
barous race  " 

"  I  think,  neighbor  Cheney,  you  will  confess  now  that  you 
had  better  take  a  paper." 

"  Confess  no  sich  thing ;  I  wouldn't  have  one  round  the 
house." 

"If  you  had  taken  the  papers,  you  would  have  known 
about  this  rise  in  grain." 

"  Perhaps  I  should  ;  but  Reuben  generally  tells  me  about 
these  things." 

"  It  was  only  in  the  paper  that  came  to-day ;  I  read  it 
since  I  saw  you  this  morning.  But  I  should  no  more  think 
of  selling  any  thing  «f  any  consequence  without  seeing  how 
the  Boston  markets  were  than  I  should  think  of  cutting  my 
own  throat." 

"  Kind  of  a  dog's  life  to  be  tied  to  a  newspaper,"  sneered 
Farmer  Cheney. 

"  But  if  you  had  taken  a  newspaper,  neighbor,  and  read 
17 


194  TAKING    THE    NEWSPAPERS. 

it,  you  would  have  made  twenty  dollars  by  it  in  this  one 
trade ;  twenty  dollars,  neighbor  —  enough  to  pay  for  the 
paper  ten  years." 

"  Git  out !  These  things  look  well  enough  as  you  book 
farmers  figger  'em  up ;  but,  you  see,  when  you  come  to  the 
scratch,  they  ain't  nowhere." 

"  It  looks  to  me  like  a  plain  case." 

"  Now,  'spose  I  could  make  twenty  dollars  by  takin'  the 
paper ;  it  would  do  me  a  darn  sight  more  mischief  than 
that." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  newspaper  puts  the  very  devil  in  the  gals' 
heads.  Now,  they  never  use  to  have  their  cu'sed  picnics 
round  here  till  the  gals  got  to  readin'  on  'em  in  the  papers. 
And  then  the'  buryin'  ground,  they  couldn't  even  let  that 
alone.  Some  feller  put  a  piece  in  the  paper  about  Mount 
Auburn,  Sorrel  Hill,  Greenbush,  and  some  sich  place,  and 
the  fust  thing  we  know  the  gravestones  are  all  jumbled  up  in 
a  heap,  gravel  is  carted  in,  and  posies  set  out  all  over  it. 
Now  they  call  it  a  '  symmetry,'  I  b'leve." 

"  A  cemetery,  neighbor  ;  but  we  who  read  the  newspapers 
like  these  things.     There  is  something  pleasant  in  ornament- 
ng  with  flowers  the  resting-place  of  our  dead." 

"  It  looks  to  me  more  like  '  sacrelation.'  " 

"  Sacrilege  !  O,  no  ;  far  from  it." 

"  Well,  I  think  so  ;  and  then  we£ve  got  to  have  new 
school  housen,  a  new  town  house,  and  the  roads  must  all  be 
« McDonalized.' " 

"  McAdamized." 

"  Well,  no  matter  what  it  is  ;  it  all  comes  of  these  cu'sed 
newspapers.  My  taxes  are  twenty  dollars  a  year  more  than 
they  used  to  be." 


TAKING    THE    NEWSPAPERS.  195 

"  And  you  sell  the  produce  of  your  farm  for  five  hundred 
dollars  more." 

"  Well,  that's  true  ;  but  there's  no  kind  of  need  of  makin' 
the  taxes  any  more,  all  for  newspapers." 

"But  you  must  think  how  much " better  and  wiser  your 
family  would  be  with  a  newspaper  to  read." 

"  By  mighty  !  I  should  think  they  would  !  Only  look  at 
Beacon  Craig's  folks.  Them  gals  cost  him  a  fortin  every 
year  in  books  and  new  gowns.  The  newspapers  won't  do  ; 
they  must  have  books,  and  waste  half  their  time*  readin' 
on  'em." 

"  But  it  is  a  very  worthy  and  intelligent  family,  and  the 
deacon's  income,  owing  to  his  more  enlightened  method  of 
conducting  business,  is  at  least  ten  times  as  great  as  it  used 
to  be,  and  he  can  well  afford  to  spend  all  he  does  in  edu- 
cating his  children." 

"  No  use  o'  talkin'  about  it ;  give  me  the  good  old  way ; 
and  when  I'm  dead,  I  ain't  at  all  particular  aboui  havin' 
buttercups  and  white  weed  growin'  on  my  grave  ; "  and 
Farmer  Cheney  went  off,  "  wondering  what  the  world  was 
coming  to." 

CHAPTER    III 

ABOUT  a  year  after  their  conversations,  Tom  Cheney  came 
home  to  visit  his  father.  The  ambitious  youth,  who  had 
acquired  half  his  education  by  reading  the  newspapers,  had 
not  written  his  father  concerning  his  business  prospects. 

"  Why,  Tom,  what  have  you  been  about  all  this  time  ?  " 
asked  the  old  gentleman,  as  he  surveyed  Tom's  spruce  ap« 
pearance. 


196  TAKING    THE    NEWSPAPERS. 

"  Making  money,  father,"  replied  the  hopeful  son. 

"  Have  you  made  any,  Tom  ?  " 

"  A  little." 

"  A  little  !  Guess  you'd  better  staid  at  home,  and  worked 
on  the  farm.  You  was  doin'  well  here." 

"  Done  pretty  well  as  it  is." 

"  How  much  you  made,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Five  thousand." 

"  Git  out !     You  are  jokin',  Tom." 

"  True  as  preaching." 

"  How  did  you  do  it?  " 

"  Well,  I  went  into  that  '  chance  for  young  men ; '  tout 
that  wan't  much ;  so  I  looked  into  the  newspapers  for  some- 
thing better." 

"  Newspapers  again,"  sneered  Farmer  Cheney. 

"  The  first  thing  I  saw  was,  that  peaches  were  selling  down 
south  for  ten  cents  a  bushel,  while  they  brought  two  dollars 
here.  YOU  see,  the  risk  of  transporting  them  makes  the 
difference.  Then  I  saw  in  the  same  paper  that  preserved 
peaches  brought  two  shilling  a  pound  north ;  so  I  put  that 
and  that  together,  and  hatched  out  a  speculation.  I  bought 
the  sugar,  and  sent  it  down  to  Delaware,  where  the  peaches 
were  cheap,  and  went  to  making  preserves  there.  In  this 
way  I  made  money." 

"  You  are  a  shrewd  one,  Tom." 

"All  owing  to  the  newspapers,  father." 

"  Git  out ! " 

"  I  see  by  the  papers  that  the  Chinese  empire  has  been 
divided,  and  the  rebels  are  in  a  fair  way  of  making  China  a 
Christian  country.  I  have  a  great  notion  of  going  out  there 
to  establish  a  line  of  stages  between  Shanghae  and  Nankin. 
What  do  you  think  about  it  ?  " 


TAKING    IHE    NEWSPAPEES.  197 

• 

"  Don't  know  what  to  think.  I'm  done  thinkin' ;  but, 
Tom,  when  you  go  to  Boston  again,  just  drop  in  and  tell  'em 
to  send  me  the  American  Union  and  the  Practical  Fanner 
for  one  year.  Here's  the  three  dollars." 

"  Bravo  !  you  are  a  brick,  after  all,  pa  1 " 
17* 


"CIGAKS  FOR  TWO;" 

OR, 

CUEING     A     SMOKER. 

CHAPTER    I.    ' 

"  SMOKES,  does  he  ?  The  abominable  wretch  !  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Volant  to  her  friend,  Mrs.  Washburn,  a  young  wife 
who  had  just  gone  to  housekeeping. 

"  He  smokes,  but  he  is  not  an  abominable  wretch  —  I  am 
sure  he  is  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Washburn,  a  little  startled  by 
the  hard  name  applied  to  her  husband,  whom  she  both  loved 
and  esteemed. 

"  Not  a  wretch  ?" 

"No,  I'm  sure  he  is  not ! " 

"  Yes,  he  is  ;  any  husband,  especially  one  who  has  been 
married  only  a  year,  and  won't  leave  off  smoking  when  his 
wife  desires  it,  must  be  a  wretch." 

"  No,  you  overstate  the  case.  He  is  every  thing  a  husband 
ought  to  be  —  so  kind,  so  devoted,  so  indulgent.  But  then, 
I  do  wish  he  would  not  smoke." 

"  You  must  break  him  of  it  —  the  cruel  monster." 

"  Nay,  do  not  call  him  such  hard  names ;  I  love  him  with 
all  my  heart,  though  he  does  smoke." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  do  ;  young  wives  .are  apt  to  be 
foolish." 

(198) 


CIGAES    FOR    TWO.  199 

«  Foolish ! " 

"  Yes ;  he  sees,  I  dare  say,  that  you  lo  re  him,  and  so  he 
takes  the  advantage  of  you." 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Volant,  don't  you  love  your  husband  ?  " 

"  Well,  suppose  I  do  ;  there  is  no  need  of  telling  him  of 
it.  I  make  him  think  I  don't  care  any  thing  about  him. 
Why,  I  can  manage  him  as  easily  as  I  could  a  kitten." 

"  I  don't  like  that ;  I  think  there  ought  to  be  love  and 
confidence  between  man  and  wife." 

"  Pooh ! " 

"  You  cannot  be  happy  with  him."  . 

"  I  should  not  be,  if  I  became  his  slave." 

"  Not  his  slave  !  " 

"  Don't  you  believe  it !  When  you  have  been  married  as 
long  as  I  have,  you  will  get  rid  of  some  of  these  sentimental 
notions,  which  answer  very  well  for  the  first  year  or  so,  but 
become  very  inconvenient  after  that." 

"  For  my  part,  I  always  mean  to  love  my  husband  as 
much  as  I  do  now,  even  if  it  is  sentimental." 

"  See  if  you  do  !  Husbands  must  be  carefully  managed, 
or  they  become  tyrants.  Now,  my  husband  smoked  the  first 
year  after  marriage  ;  but  then  he  was  a  little  careful  about 
bringing  his  cigar  into  the  house,  for  I  told  him,  up  and 
down,  I  wouldn't  have  it." 

"  I  should  suppose  he  would  have  rebelled." 

"  He  did,  but  not  at  first.  One  night,  nearly  a  year  af- 
ter we  were  married,  he  brought  home  a  whole  bundle  of 
cigars,  and  put  them  on  the  mantel-piece.  Taking  one, 
he  very  coolly  lighted  it,  and  proceeded  to  read  the  evening 
paper." 

"  That's  just  the  way  my  husband  does." 


200  CIGARS    FOR    TWO. 

"  1  was  downright  mad  at  his  impudence  ;  hut  I  did  not 
say  a  word.  The  next  day  I  bought  a  monstrous  great  snuff- 
box, and  filled  it  full  of  rappee.  In  the  evening  he  lighted 
his  cigar  as  before  ;  but  no  sooner  had  he  done  so,  than  I 
seated  myself  opposite  to  him,  and  drawing  out  my  snuffbox, 
I  took  a  generous  pinch,  snuffing  the  filthy  stuff  into  my 
nostrils,  at  the  risk  of  sneezing  my  head  off." 

"How  funny!" 

"  My  husband  did  not  think  so.  He  looked  at  me  with 
astonishment.  '  You  take  snuff? '  said  he.  '  I  do  ;  at  least, 
I  mean  to  learn,'  I  replied.  '  It  is  a  filthy  habit,'  says  he. 
4  No  worse  than  smoking,'  says  I.  We  debated  the  matter 
for  a  long  time,  and  at  last  he  gave  up  the  point,  and 
promised  to  throw  away  his  cigars  if  I  would  throw  away 
my  snuff.  My  point  was  gained,  and  of  course  I  gave  up 
my  snuff." 

"  And  he  never  smoked  any  more  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Wash- 
burn,  laughing. 

"  Yes,  he  began  once  after ;  but  I  took  to  the  snuff  again, 
and  he  gave  it  up." 

"  Are  you  sure  he  don't  smoke  now?  "- 

"  If  he  does,  he  never  lets  me  see  him.  My  sitting  room 
is  not  all  smoked  up  as  yours  is." 

"  It  was  a  glorious  trick  !  " 

"  That  it  was,  and  I  advise  you  to  try  it  upon  Mr.  Wash- 
burn." 

"Ill  couldn't  take  a  pinch  of  snuff  any  more  than  I  could 
swallow  an  elephant." 

"  Smoke,  then.  There  are  some  nice  little  cigars  sold  at 
the  apothecaries,  made  on  purpose  for  ladies.  They  are  so 
mild  that  they  wouldn't  make  you  sick ;  though,  even  if  they 


CIGAKS    BOB    TWO.  201 

did,   you   wouldn't   mind,   so  they  cure   your  husband  of 
smoking." 

"  It  seems  too  bad  to  play  such  a  trick  upon  him  —  he  is 
always  so  kind,  and  permits  me  to  do  just  as  I  please,"  said 
the  tender-hearted  Mrs.  "Washburn. 

"  What  else  could  he  do  ?  " 

"  It  looks  kind  of  mean  to  me." 

"  Not  a  bit." 

"  I  don't  know  as  it  would  succeed." 

"  Nonsense  !  I  am  sure  it  would.  He  never  would  let 
you  smoke,  for  these  husbands  have  an  awful  horror  of  any 
impropriety  in  their  wives." 

"  Then,  he  says  he  has  always  smoked,  and  can't  leave  it 
off." 

"  Pshaw  !    The  old  story  !  " 

"  I  am  almost  tempted  to  try  it." 
•  "  I  would." 

"  It  seems  so  unkind,  though,  that  I  have  hardly  the  heart 
to  do  it." 

"  You  are  notional,  my  dear  Mrs.  "Washburn.  When  you 
have  been  married " 

The  remark  was  broken  off  by  the  abrupt  entrance  of  the 
"  abominable  wretch  "  himself.  Mrs.  Washburn  rose  as  he 
entered,  and  in  spite  of  the  abominable  odor  that  his  breath 
must  have  exhaled,  printed  a  kiss  upon  his  tobacco-stained 
lips. 

The  lady  "  who  had  been  married  several  years  "  was  dis- 
gusted, and  after  a  few  words  concerning  the  weather,  took 
her  leave. 


202  CIGARS    FOR   TWO. 


CHAPTER    II. 

MRS.  WASHBURN  was  a  pretty,  affectionate,  gentle-hearted 
wife.  Her  whole  existence  was  bound  up  in  her  husband, 
as  well  it  might  be  ;  for  never  was  husband  more  devoted  to 
his  wife  than  he  was.  To  our  mind  she  was  a  model  wife  ; 
none  of  your  stormy  vixens,  that  set  their  hearts  upon  attain- 
ing a  point,  and  will  pull  the  house  down  upon  your  head 
but  they  will  attain  it. 

In  her  eye,  Mr.  Washburn  had  only  one  fault ;  and  that 
was  the  villanous  habit  of  smoking,  which  all  her  eloquence 
nad  been  powerless  to  overcome.  She  didn't  "  put  her  foot 
down,"  as  her  friend,  Mrs.  Volant,  had  done  ;  for  —  poor, 
gentle-hearted  creature  —  she  couldn't  think  of  provoking  a 
quarrel  with  him,  and  had  about  concluded  to  make  the  best 
of  it,  and  let  him  smoke  in  peace. 

But  there  was  something  so  irresistibly  funny  about  Mrs. 
Volant's  plan,  that  she  determined  to  try  it,  and,  accordingly, 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  she  sent  the  Irish  girl  to 
the  apothecary's  shop  for  a  bunch  of  "  Bagdad  cigars."  Dis- 
posing a  few  of  them  in  her  work  basket,  ready  for  the  mo- 
mentous occasion,  her  mind  pictured  the  scene  that  would 
ensue  when  she  should  light  one  of  them.  It  was  so  funny 
that  she  laughed  out  loud  at  the  idea.  Wouldn't  he  be 
surprised  to  see  her,  who  had  teased  him  so  much  to  leave 
off  smoking,  commence  the  practice  herself !  Wouldn't  his 
eyes  stick  out,  when  he  should  see  her  puffing  a  cigar  at  her 
eewing,  as  he  did  when  he  read  the  evening  paper  ! 

She  was  so  pleased  with  the  plan,  that  she  would  have  put 


CIGABS    FOE    TWO.  203 

it  in  execution,  even  if  it  had  been  only  for  the  sport  it 
promised  her,  independently  of  any  good  result  which  might 
flow  from  it.  Wouldn't  he  beg  her  to  smoke  no  more  ! 
Wouldn't  he  be  mortified,  and  wouldn't  she  win  the  day, 
and  glory  over  his  defeat !  Wouldn't  he  be  glad  to  promise 
her  that  he  wouldn't  smoke  another  cigar  as  long  as  he  lived ! 
She  was  so  delighted  that  she  could  hardly  contain  herself. 

Mr.  Washburn  came  home  to  tea,  and,  as  usual  when  he 
entered  the  house,  he  gave  her  a  kiss,  and  a  tender  greeting. 
They  were  seated  at  the  tea  table  ;  Mrs.  Washburn  was  so 
full  of  mirth,  that  she  came  near  scalding  herself  with  the 
hot  tea  when  she  poured  it  out.  Her  merry,  mischievous 
laugh  rang  pleasantly  on  her  husband's  ear,  who,  poor  fellow, 
could  have  had  no  idea  of  the  terrible  ordeal  through  which 
he  was  doomed  to  pass. 

When  tea  was  over,  the  astral  lamp  transferred  to  the 
lightstand,  and  Mr.  Washburn  had  stretched  himself  into  a 
comfortable  position  in  the  large  easy  rocking  chair,  with  his 
legs  lazily  reposing  in  another  chair,  the  everlasting  cigar 
was  produced,  lighted,  and  began  to  diffuse  its  fragrance 
through  the  room. 

Mrs.  Washburn  could  hardly  control  her  inclination  to 
burst  into  a  laugh  at  the  mere  thought  of  what  she  was 
about  to  do.  Seating  herself  at  the  side  of  the  table  op- 
posite her  husband,  she  took  from  the  work  basket,  with  an 
air  as  grave  and  solemn  as  a  judge,  one  of  the  "  Bagdads." 
Placing  the  filthy  roll  between  her  ruby  lips,  she  glanced  a* 
her  husband. 

"Now,  Mr.  Smoker,"  thought  she,  —  it  would  have  spoiled 
the  joke  to  have  said  it,  —  we  "  will  see  whether  you  don't 
abandon  that  nasty  habit." 


204  CIGARS    POK   TWO. 

Mr.  Washburn  happened  to  glance  at  her ;  but,  contrary  to 
her  expectation,  he  manifested  no  surprise,  and  went  on 
reading  the  Transcript. 

"  So,  so,  Mr.  Smoker,"  thought  she  again,  "  you  think  I 
am  joking,  do  you  ?  I  will  soon  convince  you  ;  "  and  the  lady 
took  a  taper,  and  applied  a  light  to  the  cigar. 

But  Mrs.  Washburn  was  rather  inexperienced  in  the  modus 
operandi  of  lighting  a  cigar,  and  she  was  unable  to  make  it 
"  go."  She  lit  another  taper,  and  puffed  away  with  all  her 
might ;  but  the  Bagdad  was  as  resolute  as  the  great  caliph 
himself.  She  persevered,  till  her  extraordinary  exertions 
again  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr.  Washburn. 

*'  You  are  lighting  the  wrong  end,  my  dear,"  said  he,  with 
the  utmost  nonchalance. 

"  How  provoking  he  is ! "  thought  Mrs.  Washburn. 
"  Why  don't  he  remonstrate  ?  " 

"  You  should  bite  off  the  twisted  end,  and  then  put  it  in 
your  mouth,"  continued  the  husband,  turning  to  the  paper 
again. 

Aided  by  these  directions,  the  lady  took  another  cigar, 
which  she  succeeded  in  lighting.  The  first  taste  of  the 
tobacco  smoke  was  horrible  ;  but  she  had  determined  to  be 
a  martyr  for  her  husband's  sake ;  and  taking  her  sewing,  she 
continued  to  puff  away  as  she  plied  her  needle,  till  a  certain 
nausea  compelled  her  to  abandon  the  experiment  for  that 
time.  Casting  the  Bagdad  into  the  grate,  she  began  to  wish 
she  had  not  listened  to  Mrs.  Volant. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  dear.?  Wasn't  it  a  good  cigar? 
Try  mine;  they  are  Monte  Christos  of  the  first  quality," 
and  the  imperturbable  Mr.  Washburn  offered  her  a  choice 
from  his  case. 


CIGARS    FOB   TWO.  205 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  my  dear  ;  I  will  not  smoke  ,  any  more 
to-night." 

"But  Avhat's  the  matter,  Mary?  You  are  as  pale  as  a 
sheet ! " 

"  I  feel  a  little  faint ;  I  shall  be  better  in  a  moment,"  and 
Mrs.  Washburn  was  obliged  to  leave  the  room. 

Poor  woman  !  she  was  sick  all  the  evening !  But  the  next 
day,  Mrs.  Volant,  who  had  called  to  learn  the  success  of  the 
experiment,  advised  her  to  try  again,  assuring  her  it  would 
net  make  her  sick  the  second  time. 


CHAPTER    III. 

MK.  WASHBTTEN  had  a  couple  of  his  intimate  friends  at 
his  house  to  play  a  game  of  \thist  the  next  evening,  and  the 
devoted  wife  reso'lved  to  try  the  effect  of  a  smoke  in  their 
presence. 

When  the  party  were  seated,  Mr.  "Washburn  passed 
round  his  cigar  case. 

"Won't  you  smoke,  my  dear?  "  asked  he,  tendering  the 
cigars  to  his  wife. 

"  I  will ;  but  you  know,  Joseph,  that  I  never  smoke  your 
cigars  ;  they  do  not  suit  my  taste." 

Whew  !  that  was  cool ! 

Mrs.  Washburn  lit  a  Bagdad. 

"  Is  it  .possible  you  smoke,  Mrs.  Washburn  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Barnes,  astonished  at  the  singular  spectacle  of  a  woman 
puffing  away  at  a  cigar,  for  all  the  world,  like  a  loafer  in  a 
bar  room 

"  Occasionally,  just  to  please  my  husband,"  replied  Mrs. 
18 


206  CIGAES    FOB   TWO. 

Washburn,  after  she  had  blown  out  a  long  wreath  of  blue 
smoke. 

"  Yes,  Barnes,"  interposed  Mr.  Washburn ;  "  it  is  more 
sociable,  you  know,  to  have  company  when  one  smokes.  We 
are  generally  alone  in  the  evening,  and  she  is  so  kind  as  to 
emoke  with  me.  Ah,  Barnes,  teach  your  wife  to  smoke,  it 
is  so  pleasant  to  smoke  with  one's  wife." 

The  lady  was  thunderstruck.     Was  it  possible  that  he  had 

no  more  respect  for,  the  proprieties  of  life  than  that?     She 

smoke  ?     She  had  already  acquired  the  reputation  of  being 

'a  smoker,  without  having  produced  any  of  the  anticipated 

good  results. 

Mrs.  Washburn  threw  the  lighted  Bagdad  into  the  stove. 
She  had  almost  cried  with  jrexation. 

"  Not  smoke,  my  dear  ?  "  said  her  husband. 

"  I  think  you  can  be  sociable  to-night,  if  I  don't  smoke." 

"  Do  smoke,  my  dear ;  it  gives  me  so  much  pleasure  to 
see  you  enjoy  a  good  cigar." 

"  That's  too  bad,  Joseph." 

Mr.  Washburn  laughed  outright,  and  throwing  down  his 
cards,  explained  the  event  of  the  preceding  evening. 

"  I  will  own  up ;  I  did  it  to  break  him  of  the  habit.  I 
give  it  up !  " 

When  the  gentlemen  had  taken  their  leave,  Mrs.  Wash- 
burn  explained  by  whose  advice  she  had  adopted  the  plan. 

"  Mrs.  Volant  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  perfect  shrew. 
Her  husband  is  a  laughing  stock  for  all  State  Street.  She  is 
a  bad  adviser." 

"  How  slick  you  have  turned  the  joke  upon  me ! "  said 
Mrs.  Washburn,  laughing  heartily. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  I  overheard  some  of  your  conversation 
when  the  plot  was  laid." 


CIGAES    FOE   TWO.  207 

"  O,  ho  !  you  did  ?      No  wonder  it  failed,  then." 

"  I   did ;  but,   Mary,  are  you  so  very  much   against   my 

smoking  ?     I  love  the  weed,  but  I  love  you  more ;  "  and  Mr. 

Washburn  kissed  her  tenderly. 

"  Nay,  I  will  say  no  more  about  it.  Perhaps  I  was  selfish." 
"  Not  selfish  ;  I  will  leave  it  off,  my  dear,  for  your  sake." 
"  No,  no  ;  I  don't  wan't  you  to  do  so.  If  you  are  so  very 

fond  of  smoking,  I  never  will  say  another  word  about  it." 
And  Mr.  Washburn  has  smoked  his  cig^r  in  peace  ever 

since. 


"OUT    OF   'BUSINESS ;" 

OB, 

THE     HISTORY     OP    A    SPLENDID    "BUST    UP." 

CHAPTER    I. 

"Oux  of  business,  are  you,  Ned?  Well,  that  is  bad," 
said  Mr.  Joseph  Murdock,  a  stock  broker,  to  his  nephew. 

"  Decidedly  bad." 

"But  why  did  you  leave  Grreen  &  Smith?  That  is  a 
good  concern." 

"  Salary  was  too  small." 

"  Better  than  you  get  now,  at  all  events,"  replied  the 
worthy  old  gentleman,  with  a  look  of  displeasure. 

"  Couldn't  pay  my  way  on  it." 

"  Not  on  five  hundred  dollars  ! "  and  '  uncle  Joe,'  as  he 
was  commonly  called,  held  up  both  hands  in  astonishment. 

"  I  am  in  debt  at  tliis  moment,"  returned  Ned,  with  a 
rueful  glance  at  his  uncle. 

"  And  likely  to  be.  Of  course  you  don't  expect  to  pay 
your  debts  by  wandering  about  the  streets." 

"  I  expect  to  find  business  again." 

"  You  do  not  expect  to  get  five  hundred  dollars  the  first 
year,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  intend  to  strike  for  a  thousand." 

(208) 


OUT    OF    BUSINESS.  209 

"  Strike !  you  won't  hit  it." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall." 

"  Ned,  you  are  going  to  the  deuse  as  fast  as  high  living 
and  dissipation  in  general  will  carry  you." 

"  Why,  uncle,  I'm  sure  you  don't  know  me." 

"  Sit  down,  Ned ;  let  us  talk  it  over.  I  want  a  young 
man  in  my  office,  and  perhaps  we  can  make  a  trade." 

"  Thousand  dollars,  uncle  Joseph ;  "  and  Ned  Murdock 
attempted  to  look  sly. 

"  Not  out  of  me,  Ned." 

"  Can't  live  on  less." 

"  Better  die  then.  I  want  a  young  man  to  assist  my  book- 
keeper, run  of  errands " 

"  An  errand  boy,  you  mean ;  "  and  Ned  felt  hurt  at  the 
slight  put  upon  his  dignity. 

"  An  errand  boy,  then.  My  clerk  intends  to  go  into 
business  himself  one  of  these  days,  and  if  you  are  attentive 
to  business,  here  is  an  opportunity  to  advance  yourself;  "  and 
uncle  Joe  looked  seriously  into  the  face  of  his  nephew. 

"What  is  the  salary?" 

"  Four  hundred,  for  the  present." 

"  I  should  starve  on  it." 

"  Live  within  your  means.  When  I  was  of  your  age,  1 
lived  on  two  hundred." 

"  Times  have  changed  since  then." 

"  What  do  you  pay  for  board,  Ned  ?  " 

"  Six  dollars  a  week.     I  board  at  a  hotel." 

"  Six  dollars  a  week  !  Ned,  you  are  crazy  ;  "  and  uncle 
Joe's  eyes  stuck  out  "  like  two  tallow  candles." 

"  Two  of  us  room  together  in  the  attic,  so  that  they  board 
us  low." 

18* 


210  OUT    OF    BUSINESS. 

"  Should  think  they  did  —  low  for  them,  but  high  for  you. 
Costs  you  a  hundred  for  clothes,  I  suppose,  don't  it?  " 

"  About  that,"  replied  Ned,  evasively. 

"  Do  you  go  to  the  '  play  '  often  ?  " 

"  Not  above  once  a  week,  except  when  there  are  '  stars ' 
on." 

"  Not  above  once  a  week !  Ned,  you  are  an  extravagant 
dog  ;  you  will  die  in  the  poorhouse  !  " 

"  Pshaw  !     Uncle  Joseph,  you  are  old-fashioned  !  " 

"  If  it  is  old-fashioned  to  live  within  one's  means,  to  pay 
one's  debts,  and  wear  an  honest  face,  then  —  thank  God  !  — 
I  am  old-fashioned ! "  replied  the  worthy  old  gentleman, 
with  considerable  spirit. 

"  I  mean  to  be  honest,  and  practise  all  your  old-fashioned 
virtues." 

"  You  can't  do  it,  Ned,  on  five  hundred  dollars  a  year 
with  your  habits." 

"Can't  be  honest?" 

"  No ;  it  is  not  honest  to  run  up  a  bill  at  your  tailor's 
which  you  have  not  the  ability  to  pay ;  it  is  not  honest  to 
get  in  debt  to  support  extravagant  habits." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  am  rftshonest,  uncle 
Joseph  ?  "  asked  the  young  man,  with  a  blush  on  his  cheek. 

"  Well,  well,  we  won't  talk  about  that,  now.  I  want  a 
young  man,  and  if  you  have  a  mind  to  lay  aside  your  ex- 
travagances, and  go  into  my  office  determined  to  stick  to  your 
business,  I  will  see  to  the  rest." 

"  What  salary  shall  I  have,  uncle  Joseph  ?  " 

"  Four  hundred  the  first  year,"  replied  uncle  Joseph, 
firmly. 

"  But  I  can't  live  on  that." 


OUT    OF    BUSINESS.  211 

"  Yes,  you  can.  Leave  your  hotel,  and  board  in  a  private 
family.  Quit  the  theatre  and  the  opera,  and  pay  as  you  go." 

"  But  my  debts  ?  " 

"  How  much  do  you  owe  ?  " 

"  About  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.1*' 

Uncle  Joe  scratched  his  head,  contracted  his  eyebrows,  and 
looked  decidedly  stormy. 

"  Bad  business,  Ned,"  said  he,  after  a  few  moment's  con- 
sideration. "  I  could  easily  get  you  out  of  the  scrape,  pro- 
vided I  saw  any  hope  of  amendment  on  your  part.  You 
don't  even  say  that  you  will  reform." 

"  To  be  serious,  uncle  Joseph,  I  can't  see  how  I  can  re- 
form. I  must  live,  you  know." 

"  And  you  must  live  within  your  means." 

At  this  moment  the  penny  post  deposited  a  letter  on  the 
table,  by  the  side  of  the  stock  broker,  the  contents  of  which 
perfectly  amazed  him. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE  letter  was  from  the  attorney  of  Miss  Mary  Marker,  a 
maiden  aunt  of  Ned  Murdock,  formerly  residing  at  the  west. 
It  contained  the  intelligence  of  the  spinster's  death.  The 
old  lady,  happening  to  have  a  fit  of  generosity  when  she 
made  her  will,  had  bequeathed  to  her  graceless  nephew  the 
sum  of  ten  thousand  dollars. 

Here  was  a  godsend,  and  Ned  leaped  up  six  feet  in  the 
air  with  astonishment  and  delight. 

But  the  worthy  stock  broker  was  troubled ;  for  although 
he  was  a  broker,  he  was  a  good  Christian,  and  had  the 


212  OUT   OF   BUSINESS. 

welfare  of  his  dissolute  nephew  near  his  heart.  There  was 
something  about  the  youth  that  he  liked,  notwithstanding 
lie  went  to  the  play  and  hoarded  at  a  fashionable  hotel. 

His  only  object  was  the  reformation  of  the  young  man, 
whose  ruin  and  premature  decay  were  foreshadowed  in  his 
daily  habits.  His  proposition  to  employ  him  in  his  own 
oifice  was  merely  a  stratagem  to  obtain  a  hold  upon  him. 

This  legacy  seemed  to  step  between  him  and  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  benevolent  purpose.  ; » 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  this  money,  Ned  ? " 
asked  he  with  a  troubled  countenance ;  "  I  am  named  as 
your  guardian,  you  perceive." 

"  Bah,  guardian !  I  am  twenty-one  next  week,  uncle 
Joseph,"  replied  the  young  man,  unable  to  conceal  the  ela- 
tion the  astounding  intelligence  had  produced  in  his  mind. 

"  True  ;  but  this  legacy  may  be  the  ruin  of  you,  Ned." 

"  You  are  absurd,  uncle." 

"  I  am  sorry  your  aunt  died  so  soon ;  I  wish  she  could 
have  been  prevailed  upon  to  live  till  you  had  come  to  the 
years  of  discretion."  • 

"  If  I  had  known  she  intended  to  remember  me  in  her 
will,  I  should  certainly  have  expressed  my  desire  that  she 
might  have  lived  forever,  or  some  such  hyperbole." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Ned  ?  It  is  rather  a  serious 
question." 

"  Time  enough  to  decide  it  when  I  get  the  money." 

"  Take  my  advice,  Ned ;  settle  yourself  down  in  some 
quiet  position ;  get  another  clerkship ;  don't  go  into  business 
till  you  are  more  experienced  in  the  ways  of  the  world.  You 
had  better  accept  my  offer,  and  take  your  first  lesson  in 
?earning  to  live  within  your  means." 


OUT   OF   BUSINESS.  213 

"  Be  an  errand  boy  on  four  hundred  dollars  a  year,  when 
I  have  ten  thousand  dollars  in  my  possession  ?  Did  they  do 
so  in  old  times  ?  "  and  Ned  bestowed  a  good-natured  sneer 
upon  his  quie1;  old  uncle. 

"  They  learned  to  creep  before  they  walked.  If  it  will 
make  any  difference,  I  will  give  you  the  same  salary  you 
received  at  Green  &  Smith's." 

"  Couldn't  think  of  it,  uncle  Joseph.  A  thousand  would 
not  procure  my  services  now." 

"  The  stock  broker  sighed.  Ned  was  as  good  as  lost,  in 
his  opinion.  There  was  no  hope  for  him,  and  much  as  it  trou- 
bled him,  he  saw  no  method  of  preventing  the  catastrophe. 

For  an  hour  longer  uncle  Joe  tried  to  prevail  upon  his 
wilful  nephew  to  adopt  a  system  of  prudent  living,  and  pre- 
serve his  capital  until  a  favorable  opportunity  occurred  for 
investing  it. 

Ned  was  resolute.  Visions  of  balls,  operas,  theatres,  fast 
horses,  and  a  rich  wife  flitted  before  his  excited  imagination. 
The  sum  of  ten  thousand  dollars  appeared  to  be  inexhausti- 
ble. In  vain  uncle  Joe  reasoned  that  its  possession  was 
only  equivalent  to  an  income  of  six  hundred  dollars.  Ned 
was  sure  of  being  worth  twenty  thousand  in  five  years,  and 
fifty  in  ten.  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  fast  horses  and 
the  opera  could  not  be  supported  without  encroaching  upon 
the  principal. 

CHAPTER    III. 

WHILE  they  were  debating  the  question,  Tom  Murdock, 
a  cousin  of  Ned,  entered  the  office. 

"  Ah,  Tom,"  said  Ned,  "  here  we  are ;  I  had  quite  for- 


214  OUT  or  BtrsiHESs. 

gotten  to  inform  our  good  uncle  that  you  too  were  out 
of  business." 

"  Is  it  possible  !  "  exclaimed  uncl£  Joseph.  "  Both  out  of 
business  ?  I  hope  you  have  not  been  foolish,  Tom." 

"  No,  uncle,  Tom  is  never  foolish  —  one  of  your  dignified 
boys  —  proper,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,"  replied  Ned. 

"  My  services  were  no  longer  required.  You  know  I  only 
supplied  the  place  of  another,"  added  Tom. 

"  You  have  been  there  three  months." 

"Yes." 

"  On  thirty  dollars  a  month  ! "  added  Ned,  "  and  saved 
money  at  that.  Tom  will  just  fit  your  place,  uncle." 

"Do  you  want  a' clerk,  uncle  Joseph?"  asked  Tom, 
meekly. 

"  I  thought  of  having  another ;  but  it  is  very  small  pay," 
answered  the  stock  broker,  a  little  nettled ;  for  he  had 
created  the  want  only  to  save  the  reputation  of  Ned. 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  enter  your  service,  even  at  a 
small  salary.  Any  thing  is  better  than  being  out  of  busi- 
ness." 

"  Right,  Tom,  right  ! "  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman. 
"  The  salary  is  four  hundred,  and  you  shall  have  the  place." 

And  Tom  took  the  place,  while  Ned,  instead  of  adopting 
his  uncle's  excellent  advice,  moved  down  two  flights  at  the 
hotel,  rode  out  to  Porter's  every  day,  and  went  to  the  opera 
every  night. 

In  due  time  the  legacy  reached  uncle  Joseph,  who  placed 
Ned  in  full  possession. 

In  another  month  a  large  gilt  sign,  bearing  the  "  name  and 
style"  of  a  new  firm,  (E.  "Murdock  &  Co.,)  astonished  the 
mercantile  world,  and  Ned  was  no  longer  out  of  business. 


OTTT    OF    BUSINESS.  215 

The  dignity  of  the  new  firm  —  the  "Co."  was  merely  a 
flourish  of  the  artist's  pencil  to  give  eclat  to  the  thing  — 
demanded  that  the  senior  partner  should  have  a  wife.  For- 
tunately for  the  felicitous  carrying  out  of  Ned's  idea  on  this 
subject,  things  had  for  several  months  been  progressing  to- 
wards this  event.  * 

Our  young  merchant  had  paid  his  addresses  to  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  mercantile  man,  reputed  to  be  wealthy ;  and  now 
that  he  "  had  come  to  his  possessions,"  there  was  no  obsta- 
cle to  an  immediate  marriage. 

A  house  in  a  fashionable  street  was  procured ;  the  cage 
oeing  ready,  the  bird  was  caught,  and  Ned  found  himself  in 
the  full  enjoyment  of  life.  He  was  no  niggard,  and  things 
went  on  swimmingly.  Dinner  parties,  and  tea  parties,  and 
evening  parties  followed  each  other  in  rapid  succession. 

Money  flowed  like  water.  Notes  on  three,  six,  and  nine 
months  were  given,  and  Ned  said  the  business  was  bound  to 
prosper. 

One  half  of  his  legacy  only  had  been  invested  in  his  busi- 
ness at  the  commencement  of  the  operation.  Six,  nine,  and 
twelve  months  did  the  rest.  But  his  housekeeping  affairs 
absorbed  the  other  half  in  less  than  six  months.  His  wife 
was  from  a  rich  family,  he  reasoned,  and  must  be  supported 
in  state. 

At  the  end  of  those  six  months,  when  the  first  of  the  notes* 
became  due,  Ned  was  not  a  little  astonished  to  find  that  he 
had  nothing  to  pay  them  with.  He  looked  over  his  books 
to  see  where  the  ten  thousand  had  gone  to  ;  it  was  only  dust 
in  the  balance  when  weighed  against  his  business  and  his 
family  expenditures. 

Bad  debts  and  unfortunate  speculations  stared  him  in  the 


216  OUT    OF    BUSINESS. 

face  from  every  page,  and  Ned  began  to  be  a  little  troubled. 
A  dim  consciousness  that  lie  had  been  going  too  fast  crept 
into  his  mind.  It  was  a  disagreeable  reflection,  and  when 
he  went  home  to  dinner  that  day,  he  dodged  round  a  corner 
to  avoid  meeting  uncle  Joe. 

In  the  mean  time,  Tom  had  acquitted  himself  to  the  entire 
satisfaction  of  his  uncle.  The  head  clerk  had  left,  and  he 
had  been  installed  in  his  place.  Living  within  his  means, 
indulging  in  no  fashionable  dissipations,  the  future  was 
bright  with  hope. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

ONE  morning,  while  Ned  was  pondering  the  unsatisfacto- 
ry state  of  his  affairs,  a  neighbor  brought  him  the  news  of 
the  failure  of  his  wife's  father. 

Ned  was  horrified,  for,  it  must  be  confessed,  that  in  his 
present  emergency,  he  had  based  some  rather  extravagant 
hopes  on  the  fact  of  having  a  rich  father-in-law. 

It  was  a  heavy  stroke  to  his  philosophy.  The  little  finan- 
cial theory  based  upon  his  rich  wife,  which  he  had  matured 
to  meet  the  approaching  emergency,  suddenly  and  violently 
exploded. 

A  five  hundred  dollar  note  came  due  that  day,  and  he  had 
been  thinking  of  dropping  into  his  father-in-law's  counting 
room  about  one  o'clock,  to  see  if  he  had  "  any  thing  over." 

The  thought  of  applying  to  uncle  Joe  occurred  to  him ; 
but  the  worthy  old  gentleman  was  too  blunt  by  half,  and 
would  be  likely  to  tell  him  some  homely  truths. 

The  day  wore  away  with  vain  devisings  of  means  to  extri- 


OUT    OF    BUSINESS.  217 

cate  himself  from  his  embarrassments.     The  note  was  not 
paid  —  was  protested. 

The  next  day,  people,  who  had  long  suspected  that  Ned 
was  travelling  too  fast,  began  to  see  with  a  clear  vision  the 
true  state  of  the  case.  Before  two  o'clock,  Ned  was  in 
cttancery  ! 

"  How's  this,  Ned  ?  "  asked  uncle  Joseph,  entering  the 
counting  room. 

"  Don't  mention  it,  uncle ;  don't  mention  it !  Before  you 
say  a  word,  I  will  own  that  you  were  all  right,  and  I  was  all 
wrong,"  replied  Ned,  groaning  in  spirit. 

"I  did  not  come  to  reproach  you,  Ned;  far  from  it.  I 
gave  the  best  advice  I  was  capable  of  giving ;  but  as  you 
did  not  deem  it  advisable  to  follow  it,  of  course  I  shall  not 
taunt  you  in  your  troubles." 

This  was  kind  of  uncle  Joseph,  and  it  was  spoken  in  a 
kindly  manner,  without  the  slightest  appearance  of  that  tri- 
ninphant  "I  knew  it  would  be  so,"  which  wise  old  men 
sometimes  assume.  It  went  to  Ned's  heart,  for  Ned  had  a 
heart,  notwithstanding  the  little  foibles  of  his  character. 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  to  me  for  assistance,  Ned  ?  I 
always  meant  well  by  you." 

"  My  case  was  a  hopeless  one  ;  and  to  tell  the  truth,  uncle 
Joseph,  after  what  passed  between  us,  I  was  ashamed  to 
meet  you." 

"  Fie,  Ned  !  "  and  the  old  gentleman  was  highly  flattered 
by  his  nephew's  humility. 

"  I  wish  I  had  accepted  your  offer,  even  at  a  salary  of  four 
hundred  dollars  a  year.  I  should  have  been  a  great  deal 
better  off  now." 

19 


218  OTJT    OF    BUSINESS. 

"  Well,  well,  we  will  not  mind  that  now.  The  place  is 
still  open." 

"  Is  it  ? "  asked  Ned,  eagerly. 

"  Tom  is  my  head  clerk.  Of  course  I  could  not  displace 
him." 

"  No,  certainly  not." 

"  But  as  you  have  a  wife,  I  will  make  the  salary  six  hun- 
dred now."  . 

"  Thank  you,  uncle  ;  I  will  gladly  accept  the  place." 

Ned  did  accept  it,  and  though  it  was  a  sad  fall  from  his 
former  position,  he  took  his  place  at  the  desk  in  his  uncle's 
office  as  the  assistant  of  Tom,  with  the  best  grace  in  the 
world. 

It  is  surprising  how  misfortunes  will  humble  a  man ;  how 
they  will  make  him  accept  with  joy  a  position  at  which, 
in  the  days  of  his  prosperity,  he  turned  up  his  nose  in 
disgust. 

Mrs.  Murdock  was,  in  the  main,  a  sensible  person,  and 
made  the  best  of  her  altered  circumstances.  Three  rooms  in 
a  retired  street  were  obtained  to  supply  the  place  of  the 
fashionable  residence  in  Tremont  Street,  and  the  young 
couple  went  to  housekeeping  on  a  reduced  scale. 

Ned  kept  within  his  means  this  time.  The  humiliation 
of  his  fall  gradually  wore  away,  and  he  was  surprised  to  find 
himself  and  his  wife  much  happier  than  when  they  had  been 
surrounded  by  all  the  appliances  of  wealth  and  luxury. 

Ned  remained  three  years  with  uncle  Joseph,  who  annual- 
ly increased  his  salary,  thus  enabling  him  to  add  to  the 
comforts  of  life,  and  still  keep  within  his  means. 

At  the  end  of  this  period,  the  old  gentleman,  finding  him- 


OUT    OF    BTT.3IXESS.  219 

self  old  enough  and  rich  enough  to  retire,  gave  up  the  busi- 
ness to  his  two  nephews,  who,  we  are  happy  to  record,  are 
now  doing  remarkably  well. 

MORAL.  — When  you  are  out  of  business,  do  not  be  over 
nice ;  and  w^en  you  have  a  legacy  left  to  you,  do  not  be 
rash. 


"SIX  MONTHS  AFTER  DATE." 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  Yoir  are  of  course  aware  of  the  object  of  my  repeated 
visits  at  your  house,  Mr.  Miller  ?  "  stammered  George  Har- 
rison to  the  father  of  his  intended. 

"  O,  yes,  of  course,"  replied  the  father,  carelessly. 

"  And  you  must  be  favorably  disposed  towards  the  mat- 
ter, or  you  would  not  have  permitted  it  to  continue  as  long 
as  it  has." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Harrison,  those  are  affairs  that  I  don't  like  to 
meddle  with,  though  my  opinion  is,  a  great  deal  of  judgment 
ought  to  be  used  in  relation  to  them." 

"  Certainly,  sir ;  they  affect  the  parties  for  life,"  replied 
George,  seriously. 

"  You  do  not  intend  to  be  married  at  present,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  we  have  been  thinking  of  it ;  that  is,  not 
under  a  month." 

"  A  month !  Pray,  Mr.  Harrison,  what  have  you  got  to 
support  a  wife  with  ?  "  asked  the  careful  father,  gazing  with 
considerable  astonishment  into  the  face  of  the  candidate  for 
matrimony. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  have  not  got  much  now,  it  is  true ;  but  I 
think  I  shall  be  able  to  pay  my  way." 

(220) 


SIX    MONTHS    AFTER    DATE.  221 

"  You  think  so,  but  you  may  be  laboring  under  a  mistake, 
Young  men  are  apt  to  be  rash." 

"  I  am  going  into  business,  as  you  are  aware,  next  week, 
I  have  hired  a  store,  and  have  no  doubt  I  shall  do  well." 

"I  suppose  not.  Have  you  the  capital  wherewith  to 
stock  your  store  ?  " 

"  My  capital  is  small,  but  I  have  friends." 

"  Every  body  has  friends.     "Who  are  they  ?  " 

"  There  is  Mr.  Redman,  who  offers  to  let  me  have  half  my 
stock  on  six  months." 

"  And  the  other  half?  " 

"  I  can  obtain  it  on  the  same  terms  from  other  parties." 

"And  you  propose  to  lay  in  all  your  stock  on  six  months' 
credit?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Rather  a  dangerous  scheme,  young  man." 

"  I  think  not.  I  have  no  doubt  that  I  shall  be  able  to  sell 
goods  enough  to  pay  most  of  the  notes ;  if  not,  I  can  easily 
get  them  renewed." 

"  You  are  confident." 

"  Perhaps  I  am  vain  ;  but  I  trust  a  great  deal  to  my 
ability  as  a  salesman.  Why,  Smith,  Jones,  &  Co.  offered 
me  a  thousand  dollars  for  the  next  year  if  I  would  stay  with 
them." 

"  You  had  better  accept  the  offer,  young  man." 

"  I  think  not ;  if  I  am  worth  a  thousand  dollars  to  them, 
I  am  worth  it  to  myself.  No,  sir ;  I  mean  to  have  the  bene- 
fit of  my  own  talents." 

"  Bah  !  "  exclaimed  the  prudent  Mr.  Miller. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  vain." 

"  You  are,  Mr.  Harrison.  You  will  find  that  your  ability 
19* 


222  SIX    MONTHS    AFTER   DATE. 

in  a  concern  like  that  of  Smith,  Jones,  &  Co.  is  much  more 
available  than  it  would  be  in  your  own  hands." 

"  We  differ  in  that  matter,"  replied  George  Harrison,  with 
some  display  of  wounded  dignity.  "  If  you  please,  we  wiL» 
turn  to  the  subject  to  which  my  present  visit  relates." 

"  To  be  sure,  young  man,  if  you  wish.  I  have  no  desire 
to  force  my  advice  upon  you,  though  I  cannot  help  thinking 
you  had  better  heed  the  counsel  of  those  who  are  older  and 
more  experienced  than  you  are." 

"  I  am  very  willing  to  hear  any  advice." 

"  More  willing  to  hear  it  than  to  follow  it." 

"  I  wish  to  be  reasonable.  If  a  young  man  never  attempts 
to  better  his  condition,  it  is  plain  that  he  never  will  get 
ahead  in  the  world." 

"  Very  true  ;  but  let  him  labor  as  hard  as  he  may,  without 
proper  discretion,  he  never  will  succeed." 

"You  question  my  judgment,  do  you,  sir?  "  asked  George, 
rather  sharply. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Harrison,  but  I  do.  The  relation  in 
which  you  stand  to  my- family  prompts  me  to  speak  very 
plain.  No  man  in  his  senses  would  stock  his  store  on  six 
months'  credit,  and  expect  to  succeed.  How  can  you  pay 
your  notes,  coming  all  together  as  they  do  ?  " 

"  With  your  leave,  I  will  take  care  of  that  matter,"  re- 
plied George,  with  dignity. 

"Very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Miller,  smiling  at  the  young 
man's  warmth.  "  You  propose  to  be  married  in  about  a 
month  ?  " 

"  We  do." 

"  Have  you  got  a  house  ?  " 

*'  I  have  looked  at  one." 


SIX  MONTHS  AFTER  DATE.  223 

"  Have  you  the  means  of  furnishing  it  ?  " 
"  Howe  &  Co.  have  offered  to  sell  it  to  me  on  six  months.** 
"  Then  in  six  months,  Mr.  Harrison,  I  will  talk  with  you 
about  marriage.     In  the  mean  time,  I  must  decline  all  ne- 
gotiation." 

CHAPTER    II. 

GEOHGE  HARRISON  was  a  "  crack  salesman,"  and  save 
and  excepting  that  he  rather  over-estimated  his  talents  and 
business  ability,  he  was  a  fine  fellow. 

He  did  not  believe  in  looking  on  the  dark  side  of  things. 
His  heart  was  full  of  hope,  and  he  confidently  expected  that 
whatever  he  put  his  hand  upon  would  be  instantly  turned 
into  money. 

George  was  a  young  man  of  spirit,  and  he  did  not  relish 
the  manner  in  which  his  prospective  father-in-law  had 
treated  him. 

"  He  used  me  like  a  boy,"  mumbled  George,  as  he  left  the 
counting  room  of  Mr.  Miller;  "just  as  though  he  knew 
every  thing,  and  I  didn't  know  any  thing.  But  I'll  teach 
him  better  than  that." 

Directing  his  steps  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Miller,  he  found 
Hannah,  his  lady  love,  arrayed  for  a  walk. 

"  I  have  bad  news,  my  dear,"  said  he. 

"  Bad  news  !     Why,  what,  George  ?  " 

"  Let  us  walk  to  the  Common,  and  I  will  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

Seated  on  one  of  the  stone  seats  by  the  "  Frog  Pond," 
George  narrated  the  substance  of  his  interview  with  Mr. 
Miller. 


224  six  MONTHS  AFTER  DATE. 

"  But  lie  only  postponed  the  matter  for  six  months, 
George,"  said  Hannah,  relieved  by  his  statement.  "  Per- 
haps it  would  be  better  to  put  it  off." 

"  You  know,  dearest,  we  intended  to  be  married  next 
month." 

"  Still,  we  can  wait." 

"  There  is  no  need  of  waiting,  Hannah." 

"  Perhaps  there  is  not ;  but  if  my  father  thinks  so,  hadn't 
we  better  humor  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so." 

"  "Why,  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  Fe  married ;  "  and  George  told  her  how  romantic  it 
•would  be  to  run  away  to  New  York,  and  come  home  mac 
and  wife  —  how  it  would  surprise  their  friends. 

Hannah's  "spirit"  was  fully  equal  to  that  of  George; 
and  the  moment  she  began  to  feel  that  her  "  cruel  father  " 
was  persecuting  them,  she  was  ready  for  any  thing,  even  for 
an  elopement. 

The  arrangement  was  made,  and  George  hired  the  house 
he  had  looked  at.  Howe  &  Co.  furnished  it,  and  took 
George's  note  on  six  months  in  payment,  with  a  mortgage 
for  security. 

The  new  store  was  opened,  and  things  went  on  "  swim- 
mingly." Business  was  good,  and  every  body  said  George 
was  making  money  "hand  over  fist."  . 

At  the  appointed  time  the  elopement  took  place.  The 
newspapers  duly  chronicled  the  event,  and,  for  a  time,  George 
was  a  lion.  The  ladies,  eager  to  behold  and  converse  with  a 
gentleman  who  had  the  "  spunk  "  to  tear  a  persecuted  daugh- 
ter from  the  grasp  of  a  cruel  father,  and  elope  with  her 


SIX    MONTHS   AFTER    DATE.  225 

flocked  to  his  store.  The  elopement  was  a  decided  hit,  and 
George's  gains  were  largely  augmented  by  it. 

The  happy  couple  took  up  their  residence  in  the  new 
house.  It  was  beautifully  furnished,  and  Hannah  felt  that 
she  was  a  queen  in  paradise.  To  her  the  day  was  not  long 
enough  to  hold  all  the  happiness  that  crowded  upon  her. 

And  her  father,  too,  instead  of  treating  -her  harshly  after 
the  rash  step  she  had  taken,  came  to  see  her,  was  as  kind  to 
her  as  though  nothing  had  happened,  and  never  said  a  single 
word  about  the  elopement.  Her  cup  of  joy  was  full. 

George  was  a  prince.  He  was  coining  money  ;  he  snapped 
his  fingers  at  the  notes,  and  wondered  what  Mr.  Miller  said 
now  ! 

Flushed  with  success,  he  returned  home  one  night  after  an 
unusually  good  day's  sale,  and,  after  kissing  his  wife,  —  they 
were  just  married,  —  and  playfully  chucking  her  under  the 
chin,  he  vented  his  exuberant  satisfaction  in  a  rhapsody  on 
the  joys  of  life. 

"  Happy  as  princes  !  "  exclaimed  he.  "  The  money  pours 
in  as  fast  as  I  care  to  handle  it." 

"  How  glad  I  am !  "  responded  Hannah,  artlessly. 

"  We  have  nothing  more  to  wish  for,  have  we,  Hannah?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  know  !  Why,  I  thought  you  were  perfectly 
happy." 

"  So  I  am,  dear  George  ;  but  I  was  thinking,  the  othei 
day,  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  have  a  piano  in  the  house," 
replied  she,  with  some  little  diffidence. 

"  So  it  would,  Hannah  ;  what  a  dolt  I  have  been  not  to 
think  of  it !  I  have  felt  all  along  as  though  there  was  some- 
thing wanting." 


226  SIX    MONTHS    AFTER    DATE. 

"  But  I  hope,  George,  you  will  not  buy  one  if  you  cannot 
afford  to  do  so." 

"  Afford  to  !  Certainly  I  can  ;  I  shall  be  a  rich  man  in 
one  year.  You  shall  have  one  of  Chickering's  best  to- 
morrow." 

On  the  following  day  the  piano  came.  George  paid  cash 
for  it  from  his  surplus  funds.  But  no  sooner  had  the  piano 
come  than  Hannah  began  to  feel  that  the  rest  of  their  furni- 
ture in  the  parlor  did  not  correspond  with  it.  George  agreed 
with  the  proposition,  and  their  parlor  furniture  was  sent  to 
Leonard's  forthwith.  A  new  and  expensive  set  was  fur- 
nished, and  paid  for  in  cash. 

Thus  things  went  on  for  several  months.  It  took  all  of 
George's  profits  to  keep  house  and  buy  the  new  things  which 
were  every  day  discovered  to  be  wanting. 

The  dull  season  had  come  on,  and  George  suddenly  found 
that  there  was  no  more  business  to  be  done.  He  had  not 
even  money  enough  at  the  end  of  six  months  to  pay  his 
second  quarter's  rent,  to  say  nothing  of  the  notes  which 
came  due  at  that  time. 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE  six  months  had  fully  expired,  even  down  to  the  last 
day  of  grace. 

Hannah  sat  at  the  piano,  playing  "  Home,  sweet  home," 
anxiously  waiting  the  return  of  George.  The  hour  at  which 
be  usually  came  home  had  gone  by,  and  she  occasionally 
cast  an  impatient  glance  at  the  clock. 

She  had  observed  that  for  several  days  he  had  worn  a 


SIX    MONTHS    A.FTEB,    DAIE.  227 

troubled  air,  and  had  even  been  so  cross  as  to  repulse  he* 
when  she  offered  her  accustomed  caress  ;  but  the  thought 
that  his  business  matters  were  in  an  embarrassed  condition 
never  occurred  to  her.  He  had  often  boasted  of  his  success* 
and  of  course  she  had  no  reason  to  dread  the  calamity  which 
her  father  had  pointed  out  to  her  before  her  marriage. 

A  violent  pull  at  the  door  bell  started  her  from  the  piano. 
A  rough-looking  person  was  ushered  into  her  presence. 

"  Very  sorry,  ma'am,"  said  he,  with  an  awkward  bow ; 
"  but  I've  come  to  take  possession." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  "  exclaimed  Hannah,  affrighted 
by  the  crowd  of  disagreeable  thoughts  that  rushed  to  her 
brain. 

"  Why,  simply,  ma'am,  that  the  notes  haven't  been  paid, 
and  Mr.  Harrison's  creditors  have  attached  the  property. 
This  furniture  now  belongs  to  Messrs.  Rowe  &  Co." 

The  deputy  sheriff,  having  placed  a  keeper  over  the  goods, 
politely  bowed  himself  out,  leaving  Hannah  a  prey  to  a 
thousand  anxious  forebodings. 

The  arrival  of  George  was  an  intense  relief  to  her. 

"  Just  as  I  supposed  !  "  exclaimed  he.  "  My  creditors 
have  had  their  heads  together,  and  every  thing  has  gone  by 
the  board  at  once." 

"  Pray,  what  does  it  all  mean,  George  ?  "  asked  Hannah. 

"  I  have  failed ;  my  creditors  have  driven  me  into  an  as- 
signment. I  am  a  beggar." 

"  Why,  George,  I  thought  you  were  doing  remarkably  well." 

"  I  was  ;  but,  with  all  the  business  I  have  done,  I  doubt 
if  I  could  ever  have  met  these  notes." 

"  But  how  much  do  you  owe,  George  ?  Can't  you  sell 
the  piano,  and  pay  it  ?  " 


228  SIX  MONTHS  AFTEK  DATE. 

"  It  would  be  only  a  drop  in  the  bucket.  To  come  right 
to  the  fact,  I  suppose  my  creditors  saw  that  I  lived  up  to  my 
income,  and  so  it  was  no  use  for  them  to  be  gentle.  I  must 
find  a  situation  now  as  a  salesman,  and  we  must  give  up  this 
house,  and  board." 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  bought  that  piano  ;  you  know  I 
didn't  want  you  to  if  you  couldn't  afford  it." 

"  And  a  thousand  other  things  ought  not  to  have  been 
bought.  If  I  had  saved  the  money,  my  creditors  would 
probably  have  given  me  an  extension  on  my  paying  a  part 
of  their  demands.  But  it  is  too  late  now ;  I  have  been  a 
fool.  Your  father  was  right,  after  all." 

"  I  am  afraid  he  was  ;  but  here  he  comes." 

"  Six  months  after  date,"  said  Mr.  Miller,  entering  tht 
room. 

"  You  were  right,  sir ;  I  have  been  a  fool,"  replied  George, 
with  due  humility. 

"  Well,  the  victory  is  half  won  when  you  see  the  error. 
But  I  have  not  come  to  reproach  you  for  your  folly,  George. 
How  much  do  you  owe  ?  " 

George  stated  the  amount. 

"  Very  well,"  continued  Mr.  Miller.  "  I  have  already  seen 
your  creditors,  and  with  my  name  on  your  paper,  they  have 
agreed  to  give  you  an  extension." 

"  Sir!  "  exclaimed  George,  starting  back  in  amazement. 

"  But  you  must  let  Messrs.  Howe  &  Co.  take  these 
useless  traps ;  your  house  is  furnished  well  enough  for  a 
prince." 

"  George  is  fully  sensible  where  the  error  lies,  father ;  we 
are  ready  to  profit  by  the  lesson." 

"  All  right.     Young  folks  think  that  old  folks  are  fools, 


SIX    MONTHS    AFTER    DATE.  229 

and  old  folks  know  that  young  ones  are.  Well,  well ;  \ve 
must  live  and  learn." 

"  I  am  very  grateful  to  you,  sir,"   began  George. 

"  There,  there !  that  will  do.  All  I  desire  is,  your  pros- 
perity. When  I  objected  to  your  marriage,  I  foresaw  the 
event  which  has  now  happened.  You  have  done  remarkably 
well  in  your  business ;  but  the  best  business  in  the  world 
wouldn't  pay  for  a  stock  of  goods  in  six  months,  to  say 
nothing  about  a  thousand  dollars  in  furniture  and  k»>ick- 

knacks." 

« 

George  went  to  work  again  on  a  better  principle.  When 
he  entered  a  note  on  his  "  Bills  Payable,"  it  was  not  until 
after  he  had  made  a  close  calculation  upon  the  means  of 
meeting  it.  He  was  successful  at  last,  though,  like  a  major- 
ity of  young  men  on  the  same  street,  he  won  his  way  to  suc- 
cess through  failure  and  disaster,  over  the  rough  load  of 
bitter  experience. 

A  smaller  house  was  procured,  and  furnished  in  a  neat 
and  plain  style,  and  Hannah  is  quite  as  happy  as  she  was 
during  the  honeymoon  in  her  more  ample  establishment, 
especially  as  George  —  who  is  now  never  embarrassed  by 
money  matters  —  is  always  cheerful,  contented,  and  withal  a 
loving  and  devoted  husband  ;  and  the  prospect  now  is,  that 
he  will  be  so  "  Six  Months  after  Date." 
20 


A  WORLD  OF  TROUBLE. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  I  A.M  so  glad  you  have  come,  Thomas  !  "  exclaimed  Mr*. 
Butler,  a  pale,  care-worn  young  wife,  as  her  husband  entered 
the  room  in  which  she  had  prepared  the  evening  meal. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  now  1 "  returned  the  husband, 
laying  a  wicked  emphasis  upon  the  word  "  now,"  as  though 
he  meant  to  imply  that  there  always  was  something  the 
matter. 

"  Nothing  ;  only  I  wanted  you  to  bring  in  a  pail  of  water, 
for  I  am  so  tired,  that  I  declare  I  can  hardly  keep  upon  my 
feet." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  I  did  not  know  but  what  the  baby  had  had 
a  fit,  or  got  scalded,  or  something  of  that  sort." 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind ;  I  have  trouble  enough  to  get 
along  with,  without  sickness  in  the  family.  I  feel  just  as 
though  I  should  die  every  night  when  I  get  my  work  done  ;  " 
and  Mrs.  Butler  sighed,  as  she  placed  the  smoking  tea  upon 
the  table,  and  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  apparently  so  ex- 
hausted that  she  could  not  have  stood  a'nother  moment. 

"  You  must  have  a  girl,  Mary ;  you  know  I  don't  want 
you  to  work  so  hard.  I  have  often  told  you  so  before,"  said 
Mr.  Butler. 

"  A  girl,  indeed !  Can  you  afford  to  keep  a  girl,  Thomas  ?  " 

(230) 


A    WORLD    OF    TROUBLE.  231 

"  Certainly,  I  can.  I  am  earning  twelve  dollars  a  week 
now,  and  I  am  sure  our  expenses  are  not  above  eight.  A 
dollar  and  a  half  a  week  added  to  this  sum  would  still  leave 
me  a  handsome  surplus." 

"  Just  like  you,  Thomas  ;  that  is  one  of  your  calcula- 
tions." 

"  Certainly,  that  is  one  of  my  calculations,"  replied  Mr. 
Butler,  a  little  tartly. 

"  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  reckon  any  thing  for  the  girl's 
board,"  sneered  the  wife. 

"A  mere  trifle." 

"  Every  thing  is  a  mere  trifle  with  you." 

Thomas  stuffed  half  a  hot  biscuit  into  his  mouth  to  help 
him  keep  his  temper. 

"  And  then  she  would  waste  double  her  wages,"  continued 
the  lady. 

"  Pshaw  !  that  is  an  old  woman's  bugbear,"  replied  But- 
ler, impatiently. 

"  Yes  ;  that's  just  the  way  you  always  talk." 

"  It  is  correct  talk,  though." 

"  Girls  don't  waste,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  presume  they  do,  many  of  them ;  but  you  abominably 
exaggerate  the  amount." 

"  No,  I  don't ;  I  say  they  waste  double  their  wages." 

"No  such  thing." 

"  Ask  any  one  who  has  kept  help." 

"  What  articles  do  they  waste  to  such  an  enormous  •  ex- 
tent ?  " 

"  Every  thing  —  provisions,  groceries  ;  and  they  burn  up 
tAvice  as  much  fuel  as  there  is  any  kind  of  need  of." 

"  Twice  as  much  ?  " 


232  A   WORLD    OF    TBOTJBLE. 

"  Yes  ;  twice  as  much." 

"  Let  me  see ;  "  and  Thomas  pulled  out  a  bit  of  paper  and 
a  pencil,  and  went  to  figuring  with  all  his  might.  "  We  use 
three  tons  of  coal  in  six  months.  Twice  as  much  would 
be  six  tons,  which  would  come  to  forty-two  dollars,  or  twen- 
ty-one dollars  waste.  That  is  eighty  cents  a  week." 

"  Clear  waste  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Butler,  with  palpable 
horror  depicted  on  her  countenance. 

"  Now,  allow  that  she  wastes  one  half  the  provisions  and 
one  half  the  groceries,  which  is  absurd,  and  she  would  just 
double  my  bills.  They  were  fifty-two  dollars  for  the  last 
six  months,  which  makes  a  waste  of  two  dollars  per  week. 
Why,  Mary,  we  have  only  made  the  waste  to  be  two  dollars 
and  eighty  cents,  even  with  these  figures.  Double  her  wage? 
would  be  three  dollars." 

"  She  would  waste  enough,  as  you  would  find  out  to  your 
sorrow,  if  you  kept  one,"  added  Mrs.  Butler,  not  pleased 
with  the  state  of  her  side  of  the  argument. 

"  You  don't  believe  she  could  waste  half  the  fuel  and 
stores  ?  " 

Mrs.  Butler  did  not  believe  it,  but  she  did  not  like  to  say  so. 

"  Probably,  my  dear,  under  your  excellent  supervision, 
she  could  not  possibly  waste  more  than  fifty  cents  a  week." 

"Well,  that  is  twenty-six  dollars  a  year." 

"  But  I  can  afford  to  lose  that,  rather  than  that  you  should 
make  a  slave  of  yourself." 

"  I  don't  want  a  girl;  it  would  be  more  work  to  look  after 
her  than  it  would  be  to  do  the  work  myself." 

"  As  you  please,  my  dear." 

"  I  don't  want  your  friends  to  think  you  have  got  an 
extravagant  wife." 


A    WOELD    OF    TROUBLE.  233 

"  Fudge  on  my  friends  !  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  easy  enough,  for  you  to  say  so." 

"  And  for  you,  too,  if  you  choose." 

"  I  don't  want  to  spend  all  we  get." 

"  Nor  I,  my  dear  ;  but,  to  be  very  plain  with  you,  I  had 
much  rather  do  it,  than  hear  you  everlastingly  complain  how 
hard  you  have  to  work." 

"  Don't  I  work  hard  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  but  you  do." 

"  Just  think  what  I  have  to  do." 

"  Well,  I  have  to  work  hard,  too  ;  but  I  am  sure  it  does 
not  make  one  feel  any  better  to  be  continually  grumbling 
about  it." 

"  Who's  grumbling  ?  Can't  a  body  speak  without  be- 
ing accused  of  grumbling  ? "  said  Mrs.  Butler,  rather 
pettishly. 

"  I  only  mean  to  say,  that  you  work  twice  as  hard  with 
your  imagination  as  you  do  with  your  hands  ;  your  thoughts 
make  the  work  hard." 

"  Yes,  it  is  easy  for  you  to  say  so,"  said  the  wife,  wiping 
away  the  tears  from  her  wan  cheeks. 

"  When  have  I  come  into  the  house,  Mary,  for  the  last 
six  months,  and  you  have  not  told  me  a  heap  of  troubles  as 
big  as  a  mountain  ?  I  can't  stand  it." 

"  I  never  thought  you  could  be  so  harsh  to  me.  You  did 
not  use  to  speak  to  me  in  that  way,"  sobbed  Mary,  feeling 
that  she  was  the  most  cruelly  used  wife  in  the  world. 

"  You  irritate  me  with  your  troubles." 

"I  can't  help  my  troubles;  I  do  the  best  I  can  to  keep 
your  house  in  order,  and  take  good  care  of  the  baby." 

"  I  never  found  any  fault  with  your  management.  I  am 
20* 


234  A   WORLD    OF    TROUBLE. 

abundantly  pleased  with  all  you  do,  save  and  except  youl 
croaking  and  grumbling." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  Go  about  your  work  cheerfully,  and  with  a  disposition 
to  make  the  best  of  every  thing.  By  a  cheerful  and  con- 
tented disposition,  you  will  make  even  the  hardest  day  of 
toil  a  day  of  satisfaction.  You  look  darkly  upon  your  lot, 
and  that  makes  it  black." 

"  I  can't  help  my  feelings." 

"  Yes,  you  can,  Mary.  At  any  rate,  you  ought  not  to 
imbitter  my  existence  with  your  incessant  complainings." 

"  I  have  tried  to  make  you  happy." 

"  If  you  have,  you  have  signally  failed ;  for  it  has  come 
to  that,  I  almost  hate  to  come  into  the  house,  so  much  do  I 
dread  to  hear  your  tale  of  woe." 

"  I  will  try  to  do  better." 

"  Do,  Mary ;  home  will  become  a  curse  to  me,  instead  of 
the  brightest  spot  upon  earth,  as  it  ought  to  be,  if  you  do 
not." 

The  baby  cried  at  this  point  of  the  conversation,  and  Mrs. 
Butler  wiped  away  her  tears,  and  took  the  little  cherub  from 
the  cradle  where  he  had  been  sleeping,  all  unconscious  of 
the  matrimonial  squall  which  had  been  blowing  around  him. 


CHAPTER    II. 

WHEN  Mrs.  Butler  was  married,  she  was  a  bright,  cheer- 
ful, and  happy  maiden.  For  more  than  a  year  she  and  her 
devoted  husband  had  not  known  the  meaning  of  matrimonial 
strife.  It  was  a  new  state  of  existence  to  her,  and  while  the 


A   WORLD   OF    TROUBLE.  235 

novelty  of  the  thing  lasted,  she  was  as  happy  as  the  day  was 
long. 

But  in  the  course  of  events,  she  was  deprived  of  the  pleas- 
ure of  going  abroad  much,  and  the  pretty  home  in  which 
she  had  spent  a  year  of  joy  began  to  rust  on  her  imagina- 
tion. Not  that  her  husband  was  less  devoted;  though  he 
might  not  have  been  quite  so  dreamy  and  sentimental  as  he 
was  in  the  days  of  their  courtship,  yet  he  was  all  that  a 
reasonable  wife  could  expect.  He  was  indulgent,  kind,  and 
sympathized  deeply  with  her  in  all  those  matters  wherein  a 
young  wife  needs  tenderness  and  care. 

Little  Bobby  was  born ;  but  the  little  stranger  made  such 
a  heap  of  Ayork  for  the  fond  mother,  that  she  declared  she 
should  die  under  the  infliction.  She  would  not  listen  to  her 
husband's  suggestion  to  keep  a  girl.  She  had  a  kind  of  van- 
ity in  her  composition,  which  led  her  to  endure  rather  than 
subject  her  husband's  purse  to  such  an  expenditure.  She 
feared  folks  would  say  she  was  not  as  "  smart "  as  she  wished 
to  be  considered,  or  that  Thomas's  relations  would  deem  her 
extravagant  and  lazy. 

She  continued  to  do  her  work,  though  each  day  was  a  day 
of  misery.  Before  she  got  breakfast,jlinner,  or  tea,  she  sat 
and  moped  over  it,  thinking  what  a  terrible  hard  job  it  was 
for  her  to  perform.  She  dreaded  washing  day  from  about 
Friday  morning  ;  and  over  the  washtub  she  was  as  misera- 
ble as  soapsuds  and  a  rubbing-board  could  possibly  make  her. 

The  reader  may  imagine  that  she  was  lazy ;  but  I  do  not 
think  so.  She  lived  in  a  "  world  of  trouble ;  "  she  looked 
upon  the  dark  side  of  every  thing.  Of  course,  there  were 
many  hardships  she  was  called  upon  to  endure  —  as  who  ia 
not  ?  She  was  obliged  to  keep  occupied  most  of  the  time 


236  A  WORLD   OF   TROUBLE. 

in  the  duties  of  the  household  and,  the  care  of  the  baby. 
Her  position  was  undoubtedly  one  of  trial  and  vexation,  aa 
those  who  are  experienced  in  these  matters  will  readily  un- 
derstand. 

But  the  principal  difficulty  was  to  be  found  in  Mrs.  But- 
ler's unhappy  disposition.  She  was  not  cheerful  and  con- 
tented with  her  lot.  Her  morbid  imagination  magnified  the 
little  trials  of  every-day  life  into  monstrous  woes,  and  she 
suffered  intolerably  in  her  mind,  which  was  communicated  to 
the  body.  Sh«  was  the  most  miserable  of  women  —  the 
most  unreasonably  miserable. 

Of  course,  her  husband,  who  was  of  a  directly  opposite 
temperament,  was  rendered  miserable  also.  Mrs.  Butler 
seemed  so  wedded  to  her  woe,  that  every  effort  on  his  part 
to  alleviate  it  was  promptly  repulsed.  He  had  grown  dis- 
gusted. His  wife  was  always  complaining.  He  never  came 
into  the  house  without  being  assailed  by  a  relation  of  her 
woes.  He  cursed  his  stars  —  blamed  himself  for  ever  be- 
coming a  husband. 

But,  then,  poor  fellow,  what  could  he  do  ?  Mary  was  as 
gentle  and  pleasant  a  maiden  before  her  marriage  as  one 
often  finds.  She  had  ^ever  been  placed  in  a  position  to  try 
her  character.  He  might  have  heard  her  fret  over  a  new 
dress  that  did  not  fit,  or  something  of  that  sort ;  but  he 
never  dreamed  that  a  tempest  could  ever  blow  out  of  such  a 
little  cloud.  It  was  only  when  she  felt  the  cold  touch  of 
life's  realities  that  she  showed  out  exactly  what  she  was. 

It  was  too  late  now ;  the  mischief  had  been  done.  She 
was  his  wife  ;  she  was  the  mother  of  little  Bobby.  He  loved 
her  still,  though  his  affections  had  been  terribly  shocked  by 
her  thoughtless  grumbling. 


A   WOULD   OF    TEOUBLE.  237 

Mary  had  promised  to  do  better ;  but,  alas  for  the  vanity 
of  human  promises,  they  were  words  written  in  sand.  The 
habit  had  become  deep  rooted.  Thomas  was  in  despair. 
He  had  tried  by  threats  and  by  persuasions  to  make  her 
reasonable,  but  all  in  vain.  His  house  was  a  hell  to  him. 
If  she  had  scolded  him,  been  negligent  of  her  household 
duties,  a  gadder  in  the  street,  a  gossip  —  any  thing  but  a 
grumbler,  he  felt  that  he  could  have  endured  it,  loved  her, 
and  continued  to  be  happy. 

But  it  was  an  ever-present  leaf  of  woe  her  countenance 
presented  to  him,  and  when  home  had  ceased  to  be  a  pleas- 
ant place,  he  gradually  absented  himself,  and  the  still  loving 
but  incorrigible  wife  smelt  the  rum  in  his  breath  when  he 
returned  from  his  evening  amusements. 

One  night,  about  two  months  after  the  conversation  we 
have  narrated,  as  the  clock  was  striking  the  midnight  hour, 
he  was  brought  home,  helplessly  drunk,  in  the  arms  of  two 
watchmen,  who  had  picked  him  up  in  the  street. 

What  a  sight  for  a  young  and  loving  wife,  to  behold  the 
father  of  her  child  drunk !  They  placed  him  in  bed,  and 
she  spent  a  sleepless  night  in  weeping  over  his  senseless, 
imbruted  form.  O,  the  agony  of  that  bitter  time !  Her 
husband  a  drunkard  !  she  a  drunkard's  wife  !  Earth  has 
its  miseries,  but  none  like  those  of  the  inebriate's  wife. 

"Want,  shame,  the  poorhouse,  the  court,  and  the  prison 
rose  before  her  with  terrible  vividness.  A  train  of  woes,  — 
real  woes,  —  so  long  she  could  not  see  the  end  of  it,  marched 
in  solemn  procession  before  her.  There  was  her  child  in 
rags,  her  husband  a  homeless,  idle,  degraded  sot.  There 
was  the  gaunt  form  of  Hunger,  the  glaring  eyes  of  the 


238  A   WOELD    OF    TROUBLE. 

demons  of  crime  —  there  was  every  thing  there,  from  which 
the  heart  of  woman  would  instinctively  shrink. 

Thomas  rose  the  next  morning,  and  ate  his  breakfast  in 
silence  —  the  silence  which  shame  seemed  to  impose  upon 
him.  He  was  about  to  leave  his  house  for  his  workshop, 
when  Mary  spoke. 

"  Thomas,"  said  she,  in  the  subdued  tones  of  anguish, 
while  a  flood  of  tears  rained  down  her  wan  cheek. 

He  looked  at  her,  as  though  he  had  already  divined  what 
she  meant  to  say. 

"  Thomas,  you  can't  think  how  unhappy  I  was  last  night, 
when  you  were  —  when  you  came  home." 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  now  ?  "  answered  Thomas,  sul- 
lenly. 

"  0,  Thomas,  last  night !  " 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?  " 

Mary  was  amazed  that  no  appearance  of  contrition  miti- 
gated his  flagrant  error. 

"  You  don't  come  home  in  the  evening  now." 

"No." 

"  But  you  will  come  to-night,  Thomas  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  will." 

"  Nay,  you  will  ?  " 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  Come  for  my  sake,  Thomas." 

"  Your  sake !  Well,  that  is  a  good  one,"  replied  he, 
coarsely. 

Mary  was  shocked. 

"  Last  night,  you  were  —  were "  she  could  say  no 

more. 

"Yes,  I  zoos." 


A    WOBLD    OF    TBOTJBI,E.  239 


"  You  were 


"  Drunk  !     Out  with  it." 

"  O  Thomas  !  " 

"  Well  ? " 

*'  What  misery  is  in  store  for  us  !  " 

"  Can't  help  it." 

"  Nay,  Thomas,  promise  that  you  will  not " 

*'  Get  drunk,"  laughed  Thomas. 

"  Do  not  again." 

**  Can't  promise." 

"  O  God  !  has  it  come  to  this  ?  " 

"  Fact ! " 

Mary  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  and  wept  as  though  her 
heart  would  break.  -  The  sight  seemed  to  move  the  husband, 
who  was  not  yet  lost  in  transgression.  A  tear  stole  into  his 
eye,  and  he  bent  over  her  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Mary,  I  have  sinned." 

"  You  will  not  again  ?  "  said  she,  eagerly. 

"  But,  Mary,  is  there  no  fault  on  your  part  ?  " 

"  My  part  ?  " 

"  My  home  is  hateful  to  me.  Even  the  presence  of  that 
sleeping,  innocent  child  removes  not  the  curse  which  seems 
to  hang  over  it." 

"  Why,  Thomas,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  Have  I  not  often  reasoned 
with  you  ?  " 

"  O  God ! "  exclaimed  Mary,  burying  her  face  between 
her  hands,  conscious  that  the  misery  which  menaced  her  was 
of  her  own  seeking. 

"  I  never  will  complain  of  any  thing  again  as  long  as  I 
live  !  "  she  continued. 


240  A   WOULD    OF    TROUBLE. 

'*  All,  Mary,  I  have  often  heard  you  say  so  before." 

'*  Trust  me  this  time,  Thomas." 

"  I  will,  Mary." 

"  Come  home  to-night ;  you  shall  find  me  a*ll  that  you 
could  wish." 

"  Bless  you,  Mary.  I  trust  for  your  sake,  as  well  as  my 
own,  and  for  the  sake  of  our  own  dear  boy,  that  you  may 
be  true  to  your  resolution." 

"  I  will,  Thomas,"  replied  she,  with  a  gathering  smile,  as 
her  husband  kissed  her. 

"  And  I  promise  never  again  to  taste  the  fatal  cup.  You 
snail  be  the  guardian  of  this  my  solemn  pledge ;  for  in  no 
way  can  you  more  effectually  secure  the  keeping  of  my 
promise  than  by  observing  your  own  —  in  short,  by  making 
home  happy." 

Again  the  husband  kissed  her,  and  then  went  to  his  work. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  DRUNKARD'S  wife  !  This  were  a  real  woe.  What  were 
all  her  little  vexations  compared  with  it  ?  Mary's  resolution 
was  a  firm  one,  and  in  her  earnestness  to  observe  it,  she 
knelt  and  prayed  for  strength  from  above  to  enable  her  to 
be  equal  to  the  duty  before  her. 

Last  night  a  terrible  fate  had  menaced  her.  The  lot  of  a 
drunkard's  wife  —  the  most  appalling  woe  that  can  overtake 
a  woman  —  had  threatened  to  be  her  portion.  The  sombre 
cloud  had  risen,  and  her  destiny  was  in  ner  own  hands. 

She  knew  her  husband  well  enough  to  be  satisfied  that  his 
pledge  would  be  held  sacred  —  that,  till  she  drove  him  from 


A    TY'DELD   OF    TROUBLE.  241 

his  home  by  her  unamiable  peculiarity,  he  would  be  true  to 
the  words  he  had  spoken. 

Grumbling  is  only  a  habit.  It  may  even  have  a  root  in 
the  natural  temperament  of  the  individual ;  but  it  is  not  an 
incurable  disease.  Mary  felt  that  happiness  here  and  here- 
after depended  upon  her  fidelity  to  the  promise  she  had 
made  —  that  a  single  complaining  word  would  be  like  a 
match  placed  near  the  magazine  —  and  another  word  would 
involve  her  in  hopeless  ruin. 

But  she  had  sense  enough  to  know,  and  she  strove  to  feel, 
that  it  were  useless  to  avoid  the  word,  while  the  disposition 
existed.  It  were  useless  to  whitewash  a  sepulchre  —  it  is 
still  "  full  of  dead  men's  bones."  She  determined  to  per- 
form a  radical  cure.  She  resolved  to  be  contented,  and  then 
the  hasty  word  would  not  be  spoken. 

She  went  about  her  daily  duties  with  the  feeling  that  a 
mountain  had  been  removed  from  her  heart.  She  was  cheer- 
ful —  happy  —  happy  to  feel  that  it  was  in  her  power  to 
avert  the  terrible  catastrophe  which  had  menaced  her  —  that 
she  could  avoid  the  yawning  abyss  that  was  before  her. 

All  her  trials  and  vexations  dwindled  into  trifles  com- 
pared with  the  fate  which  last  night  had  been  so  vividly  pre- 
sented to  her  imagination,  and  the  comparison  made  her 
happy. 

Punctual  to  his  accustomed  hour,  Thomas  came  home. 
He  had  not  drank  any  thing,  and  he  appeared  cheerful  and 
happy.  She  met  him  with  a  smiling  face,  and  never  men- 
tioned a  word  of  the  difficulties  that  had  beset  her.  She 
had  even  been  so  far  as  to  draw  a  pail  of  water  herself,  and 
bring  up  a  hod  of  coal ;  but  she  said  nothing  about  i.t. 

They  were  happy  again  ;  but  perhaps  it  was  as  much  the 
21 


242  A   WORLD    OF    TROUBLE. 

effect  of  the  contrast  as  the  actual  change  in  the  circum- 
stances. Thomas  fondled  little  Bobby  on  his  knees,  and 
undressed  and  put  him  to  bed  himself.  Mary  was  delighted, 
and  from  her  soul  she  prayed  that  her  own  weakness  might 
not  dissolve  the  blissful  picture  of  domestic  happiness  their 
home  at  that  moment  presented. 

A  year  passed  by.  Thomas  was  true  to  his  vow,  and  Mary 
to  hers.  Whenever  things  went  wrong  with  her,  and  the 
old  spirit  rose  in  her  heart,  her  husband  had  only  to  say,  — 

"You  absolve  me  from  my  oath,  Mary  ?  "  and  she  became 
gentle  and  cheerful  in  an  instant. 

Those  words  were  a  charm.  That  solemn  promise  broken, 
and  again  the  poorhouse,  the  penitentiary,  the  bloated  father, 
the  ragged  child,  the  long  procession  of  woes  rose  in  her 
mind,  and  she  was  true  to  herself. 

But  she  really  improved  her  disposition.  The  habit  was 
radically  cured.  The  home  of  Thomas  Butler  is  no  more  a 
"  world  of  trouble  ;  "  it  is  "  home,  sweet  home  "  —  the 
abode  of  the  angel  of  contentment,  the  dwelling-place  of 
truth  and  love,  and  the  most  effectual  preventive  of  the 
curse  of  drunkenness. 

Our  story  is  not  ail  a  story  —  it  is  true  to  the  letter.  We 
beg  the  complaining  wife  to  ask  herself  if  she  is  not  making 
for  her  husband  a  path  to  the  drunkard's  grave  —  for  herself 
and  her  children  a  bed  of  thorns. 


"SEND   FOR   THE    DOCTOR." 


CHAPTER    I. 

MY  excellent  old  uncle  Jesse  —  peace  to  his  ashes !  — 
used  to  tell  me  that  every  thing  depended  on  the  "  bringing 
up ; "  and  a  little  experience  in  this  world  of  strange  men 
and  things  —  but  a  very  good  world,  for  all  that  —  has 
convinced  me  that  he  was  considerably  more  than  half  right. 

Some  people  have  learned  to  depend  upon  themselves  in 
the  hour  of  peril.  The  energy,  firmness,  and  decision  of 
their  own  characters  are  their  sword,  shield,  and  steed  when 

"  Giant  danger  threatening  stands." 

Their  fortress  is  within  themselves.  They  have  been  taught 
by  their  instructors  or  by  their  circumstances  to  rely  upon 
their  own  strength. 

Others  are  weak,  nervous  and  vacillating  in  the  presence 
of  danger,  throwing  the  burden  of  their  salvation  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  first  "  Good  Samaritan "  who  approaches 
them.  Their  tower  of  strength  is  the  doctor,  the  minister, 
the  lawyer,*  or  some  sympathizing  friend.  They  have  never 
been  taught,  either  by  their  instructors  or  their  circumstances, 
to  depend  upon  their  own  resources,  moral,  mental,  and  physi- 
cal, for  guidance  and  support. 

If  the  house  takes  fire,  one  puts  it  out ;  but  another  runs 
to  the  church  and  rings  the  bell  for  his  neighbors.  If  Tommy 

(243^ 


244  SEND    FOR   THE    DOCTOK? 

wheezes,  papa,  who  has  no  confidence  in  himself,  sends  for 
the  doctor ;  while  mamma,  who  has  "been  taught  from  child- 
hood to  think  and  act  for  herself,  is  in  favor  of  giving  the 
little  fellow  "  an  onion  and  a  little  goose  oil." 

But  extremes  are  always  silly  or  dangerous,  as  the  case 
may  be.  People  laugh  at  papa,  because  he  is  so  ridiculously 
timid ;  and  mamma  delays  sending  for  the  physician  till 
Tommy  is  almost  dead  with  the  croup.  One  lets  his  house 
burn  down  while  he  is  summoning  his  friends  to  help  him 
put  it  out ;  and  another's  is  destroyed  because  he  attempted 
to,put  it  out  alone  when  he  actually  needed  the  assistance  of 
his  neighbors.  After  all,  it  requires  considerable  judgment 
to  get  along  in  the  world. 

We  have  no  intention  of  writing  a  homily  on  the  proper 
conduct  of  men  and  women  in  connection  with  the  casualties 
of  life.  Whether  or  not  it  be  expedient  to  send  for  the 
doctor  when  the  baby  sneezes,  we  leave  to  the  judgment  of 
the  parties  immediately  interested.  We  have  a  story  to  tell 
which  illustrates  both  sides  of  the  question  ;  and  either  dis- 
putant in  the  important  controversy  is  at  liberty  to  appro- 
priate the  moral  to  sustain  his  or  her  cherished  theory. 

Millbrook  is  a  manufacturing  village,  and  the  most  im- 
portant person  there,  at  the  time  of  which  we  write,  was  Mr. 
Milton  Barrington,  who,  to  use  the  metaphorical  language 
of  the  villagers,  "  run  "  the  principal  mill.  Though  quite  a 
young  man,  he  had  amassed  a  handsome  fortune,  and  by  his 
enterprise,  public  spirit,  and  general  character  as  a  person  of 
integrity  and  fairness,  had  attained  the  most  influential  po- 
sition in  the  village.  People  looked  to  him  for  advice  and 
assistance  in  their  extremity,  and  no  one  ever  thought  of 
making  a  motion  in  town  meeting  to  build  a  new  school 


SEND    FOR    THE    DOCTOR.  245 

house,  lay  out  a  road,  or  of  making  any  important  move- 
ment, until  he  had  been  consulted.  The  people  were  mainly 
on  his  side  in  politics,  religion,  and  philosophy.  Whatever 
he  did,  he  was  pretty  sure  to  have  plenty  of  imitators. 

Mr.  Barrjngton  had  spent  the  flower  of  his  manhood  in 
the  pursuit  of  wealth ;  and  the  idea  of  getting  married  did 
not  occur  to  him  till  he  had  reached  his  thirtieth  year.  Prob- 
ably he  would  not  have  thought  of  such  a  thing  then,  if  a 
pretty  and  otherwise  eligible  young  lady  had  not  at  that 
time  crossed  his  path,  reminding  him  of  his  duty  in  the 
premises. 

Three  years  after,  we  find  him  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  all 
the  blessings  of  the  connubial  state,  and  the  father  of  a  pretty 
little  boy  just  eighteen  months  old.  Mr.  Barrington  was 
the  happiest  of  fathers,  and  to  use  grandma's  enthusiastic 
expression,  "  he  set  his  life  by  that  boy." 

It  was  a  cold  night  in  December.  Mr.  Barrington  was 
reading  Mrs.  Stowe's  Sunny  Memories  to  his  wife,  while 
little  Charley  lay  asleep  in  his  crib  beside  them. 

The  clock  struck  ten,  and  as  the  father  laid  aside  the  book, 
Charley  coughed  rather  hoarsely,  and  waking  up,  began  to 
scream  most  lustily.  Mrs.  Barrington  took  him  up  and  tried 
to  quiet  him  ;  but  he  obstinately  refused  to  be  quieted. 

Mr.  Barrington  was  alarmed.  Charley  was  not  accustomed 
to  have  such  freaks. 

"  What  do  you  think  ails  him  ?  "  asked  he  of  his  wife. 

"  He  has  got  a  little  cold,  probably." 

"  Don't  you  think  I  had  better  send  for  the  doctor  ?  "  con« 
tinued  Mr.  Barrington,  nervously. 

"  Not  the  least  need  of  it." 

"  But  the  croup,  my  dear  ?  " 
21* 


246  SEND    FOR    THE    DOCTOR. 

"  That  cough  was  nothing  like  the  croup." 

Mr.  Harrington  was  comforted  by  this  assurance,  and  in  a 
little  while,  Charley  got  tired  of  crying,  and  went  to  sleep  again. 

The  child  was  carried  up  stairs,  and  they  retired.  But 
Mr.  Harrington  was  not  wholly  satisfied.  The  croup  was 
BO  sudden  and  so  fatal  that  the  cough  he  had  heard  seemed 
to  haunt  his  imagination.  He  could  not  go  to  sleep  for 
thinking  of  it.  He  trembled  at  the  thought  of  losing  the 
darling  little  one.  He  had  passed  almost  into  a  confirmed 
old  bachelor  before  his  marriage,  and  the  diseases  of  children 
had  never  received  much  consideration  from  him.  He  had 
heard  people  tell  how  dreadful  the  croup  was,  and  only  a 
week  before  the  only  child  of  one  of  his  overseers  had  died 
with  it,  after  an  illness  of  scarcely  twelve  hours. 

The  clock  on  the  village  church  struck  one,  and  he  was 
still  awake.  His  wife  slept  soundly.  She  was  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  nature  of  the  dreadful  disease,  and  had 
felt  no  alarm  when  the  child  coughed. 

While  he  was  thus  thinking  of  what  might  possibly  happen, 
Charley  coughed  again,  and  jumping  up  in  the  bed,  began  to 
scream  as  he  had  in  the  evening. 

Mrs.  Barrington  took  him  in  her  arms. 

"  Did  you  hear  him  cough  ?  "  asked  the  trembling  father. 

"  I  did  not.     His  screams  awoke  me." 

"  Don't  he  breathe  hard  ?  Are  you  sure  he  has  not  got 
the  croup  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  he  has.  He  seems  to  breathe  freely," 
replied  Mrs.  Barrington.  "  He  is  a  little  hoarse,  but  I  do  not 
think  it  is  any  thing  serious." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is.  Don't  you  think  I  had  better  send  for 
the  doctor?" 


SEX1)    FOR    THE    DOCTOR.  247 

"  There  is  no  occasion  to  do  so." 

"  I  am  really  alarmed  about  him." 

"  Do  as  you  wish.  ;  though  I  think  it  is  only  a  little  cold." 

Mr.  Barrington  was  satisfied  it  was  the  croup,  and  the 
consent  of  his  wife,  thus  doubtfully  given,  was  all  he  re- 
quired. The  "  man  of  all  work  "  was  called  up  and  de- 
spatched for  Dr.  Broadbeam,  with  a  request  that  the  physician 
would  come  with  all  possible  haste. 


CHAPTER    II. 

MRS.  BARRINGTON  used  all  her  maternal  arts  to  quiet  the 
little  patient.  He  did  not  appear  to  suffer  any  pain,  and 
his  respiration  was  apparently  as  free  as  ever.  In  a  short 
time,  her  efforts  were  successful,  and  Charley  sunk  away  into 
a  peaceful  slumber. 

It  was  half  an  hour  before  Ur.  Broadbeam  arrived.  It 
was  possible  he  had  used  all  convenient  despatch  in  waiting 
upon  his  influential  patron ;  but  being  a  man  of  two  hundred 
pounds,  his  swiftest  movements  were  necessarily  slow. 

Dr.  Broadbeam  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  very  skilful 
physician;  but  unfortunately  he  had  such  a  "grouty"  way 
of  dealing  with  his  patients  and  patrons,  that  his  popularity 
in  Millbrook  was  on  the  decline.  People  did  not  like  to  be 
"  snapped  up  "  when  they  were  sick  ;  and  the  only  circum- 
stance that  enabled  Dr.  Broadbeam  to  retain-  even  a  moiety 
of  the  practice  of  the  village  was  the  fact  that  Mr.  Barrington 
still  employed  him. 

At  the  suggestion  of  a  small  portion  of  the  population, 
who  had  the  hardihood  to  break  away  from  Mr.  Barrington's 


248  SEND    FOB   THE    DOCTOR. 

lead,  a  young  physician  of  good  parts,  and  with  an  easy  and 
pleasing  address,  had  been  induced  to  locate  himself  in  the 
village.  Dr.  Broadbeam  raved  like  a  madman  at  the  advent 
of  the  interloper,  stigmatized  him  as  a  quack,  and  obstinately 
refused  even  to  be  civil  to  him.  But  when  a  year  in  the 
young  doctor's  professional  experience  had  passed  away 
without  sensibly  augmenting  his  practice,  he  condescended 
to  laugh  at  him,  and  call  him  a  fool.  The  crusty  old  leech 
felt  that  he  could  have  every  thing  his  own  way ;  tha^t  his 
skill  and  experience  were  amply  sufficient  to  offset  his  morose 
address  and  sour  temper. 

To  get  out  of  a  warm  bed  in  the  middle  of  a  cold  Decem- 
ber night  is  never  agreeable  to  any  body,  unless  perchance 
the  house  be  on  fire  ;  and  young  gentlemen  who  aspire  to 
the  honors  of  the  medical  craft  ought  to  think  of  this  before 
they  choose  the  profession. 

To  Dr.  Broadbeam  night  duty  was  especially  unpleasant. 
He  was  rather  indolent  and  luxurious  in  his  habits,  and 
always  made  it  a  rule  to  believe  that  poor  folks  could  wait 
till  morning  before  they  had  the  doctor.  But  when  Mr. 
Barrington  summoned  him,  why,  it  was  quite  another  affair. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  child  ?  "  growled  Dr.  Broad- 
beam,  as  he  entered  the  apartment. 

"  I  don't  know,  doctor,  but  I  am  very  much  afraid  of  the 
croup,"  replied  Mr.  Barrington,  handing  the  physician  a 
chair. 

"Humph!" 

"  The  croup  prevails  to  some  extent  in  the  village,  you  are 
aware,"  added  the  nervous  father. 

"  Always  does  at  this  season  of  the  year,"  replied  the  doc- 
tor, bending  over  the  child  to  listen  to  his  respiration. 


SEND    FOR    THE    DOCTOR  249 

"Does  he  breathe  naturally,  doctor ?"  asked  Mrs.  Bar- 
rington, to  whom  her  husband's  alarm  had  to  some  extent 
communicated  itself. 

"  Naturally  ?  "  sneered  the  physician.  "  Nothing  under 
the  sun  ails  the  child." 

"  What  made  him  cry  so,  doctor  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Bar- 
rington. 

"  Cry  so,  madam  ?  cry  so  !  You  gave  him  too  much  sup- 
per, madam ;  and  I  am  tumbled  out  of  my  bed  to  see  a  child 
that  has  the  stomach  ache  ! "  growled  the  doctor,  enraged 
when  he  thought  of  the  comfortable  bed  which  he  had  been 
so  unceremoniously  compelled  to  leave. 

"  But  his  cough,  doctor  ?  "  said  Mr.  Barrington,  control- 
ling his  indignation  at  the  rudeness  of  the  physician. 

"  Mr.  Barrington,  you  are  a  fool !  "  exclaimed  Dr.  Broad- 
beam,  as  he  violently  jammed  his  hat  upon  his  head.  "  Do 
you  think  I  am  to  leave  my  bed  on  a  cold  night  like  this 
whenever  your  baby  sneezes  ?  Humph !  " 

"You  are  a  physician,  are  you  not?"  asked  Mr.  Bar- 
rington. 

He  was  angry ;  but  keeping  down  his  indignation,  he  put 
the  question  with  tolerable  calmness. 

"  A  physician  !  Of  course  I  am  ;  but  is  that  any  reason 
why  I  should  be  turned  out  in  the  dead  of  the  night  for 
nothing  at  all  ?  "  replied  the  enraged  leech. 

"  You  chose  your  own  profession." 

"  What  if  I  did  ?  " 

"  What  is  your  charge  for  a  night  visit  ?  " 

"  Five  dollars,  sir  !  Five  dollars  !  "  answered  the  doctor, 
maliciously. 

**  And  you  believe  that  I  am  able  to  pay  it  ?  " 


250  SEND    FOB    THE    DOCTOR. 

"  I  do,  or  I  would  not  have  come." 

"  That  is  enough,  sir  ;  if  I  am  content  to  pay  five  dollars 
for  the  assurance  of  a  physician  that  nothing  ails  my  child, 
I  take  it  that  I  am  at  liberty  to  do  so." 

"Humph!" 

"  "When  I  send  for  a  physician,  I  consider  it  a  business 
transaction.  He  gives  me  his  advice  for  the  money  I  pay 
him.  If  his  conduct  entitles  him  to  be  cherished  as  a  friend 
—  as  an  angel  sent  with  healing  balm  for  the  soul  as  well  as 
the  body,"  —  and  Mr.  Barrington  looked  sternly  at  the  doc- 
tor, —  "I  cheerfully  accord  him  his  due." 

"  Well,  sir ! " 

"  If  I  send  for  my  millwright,  I  do  not  leave  it  optional 
with  him  to  determine  whether  I  need  him  or  not.  If  he 
does  not  choose  to  come,  there  are  other  millwrights  in  the 
state." 

"  Do  you  compare  a  physician  to  a  millwright  ?  "  sneered 
the  doctor. 

"  If  I  send  for  my  millwright  to  come  and  tell  me  whether 
my  water  wheel  needs  repairs,  he  comes  ;  he  examines  it ; 
perhaps  he  decides  that  nothing  is  the  matter  with  it,  and 
that  I  otjght  to  have  known  that  it  was  perfectly  sound.  If 
he  should  reproach  me  for  sending  for  him,  I  should  call  him 
no  business  man.  I  pay  him  for  his  time,  though  he  lift  not 
an  axe." 

"  Humph !  " 

"  It  is  a  great  satisfaction  to  me  to  know  that  nothing  aila 
my  child.  I  am  able  and  willing  to  pay  for  that  assurance." 

"  Pay  !  Do  you  take  me  for  a  hireling  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
doctor,  with  a  fresh  outbreak  of  anger,  as  he  abruptly  turned 
on  his  heel  and  left  the  chamber. 


SEND    FOB    THE    DOCTOK.  251 


CHAPTER     III. 

ON  the  1st  of  January,  Dr.  Broadbeam's  bill  for  pro- 
fessional services,  amounting  to  over  two  hundred  dollars, 
was  presented  to  Mr.  Barrington,  and  was  promptly  paid. 
He  was  not  one  of  that  numerous  and  highly  respectable 
class  of  people  wl  10  make  it  a  point  to  grumble  at  doctor's 
bills. 

The  manufacturer  was  a  peaceful,  prudent  man,  not  dis- 
posed to  stir  up  strife  in  the  neighborhood ;  so  he  kept  silent 
in  regard  to  his  unpleasant  interview  with  the  physician.  . 

About  a  month  after,  Mr.  Barrington  was  roused  from  his 
slumbers  at  midnight  by  the  sound  of  an  ominous  cough  from 
Charley.  But  this  time  it  did  not  awake  the  little  fellow. 
The  fond  father  was  still  fearful  of  the  croup  ;  yet  the  child 
slept  so  soundly  that  his  fears  subsided,  and  he  was  just 
dropping  asleep  again  when  the  cough  was  repeated. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  child  awoke,  and  his  respiration 
began  to  grow  difficult. 

*'  What  do  you  think?  "  asked  he  of  his  wife. 

"  He  is  a  little  croupy ;  but  I  do'  not  think  there  is  any 
occasion  to  be  alarmed.  I  will  give  him  the  '  Hive'  Sirup,' 
which  I  doubt  not  will  immediately  relieve  him." 

Mr.  Barrington  got  up  and  brought  the  sirup.  A  doso 
was  given,  and  the  parents  waited  with  anxiety  the  effect. 

An  hour  elapsed,  and  the  child  was  no  better. 

"  Don't  you  think  I  had  better  send  for  the  doctor  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Barringtou. 

"  No,  I  can  get  along  very  well." 


252  •  SEND    FOR   THE    DOCTOR. 

"  But  the  croup  ;  hasn't  he  got  it  ?  " 

"  He  has  a  croupy  cough,  which  may  lead  to  croup,  if  it 
is  not  attended  to,"  replied  Mrs.  Barrington,  giving  the  little 
sufferer  another  spoonful  of  the  sirup. 

Two  hours  more  passed  away,  and  instead  of  getting 
better,  the  child  grew  worse  every  minnte.  But  Mrs.  "Bar- 
rington did  not  like  to  send  for  the  doctor.  In  the  family 
of  her  father,  a  physician  had  rarely  ever  been  called,  and  she 
had  come  to  regard  the  faculty  with  something  like  contempt. 

"  He  grows  worse,"  said  Mr.  Barrington,  beginning  to  lose 
confidence  in  the  efficacy  of  his  wife's  treatment. 

"  The  medicine  has  not  had  time  to  produce  its  effect  yet," 
replied  Mrs.  Barrington.  "  He  will  begin  to  grow  better  soon." 

"  I  think  we  had  better  send  for  the  doctor,"  added  the 
anxious  father.  "  It  may  be  too  late  in  the  morning." 

".I  do  not  want  any  more  fuss  with  the  doctor.  The  last 
time  he  came,  he  made  me  so  nervous  that  it  took  me  a 
week  to  get  over  it." 

"  We  will  not  have  Dr.  Broadbeam,  then." 

"  He  will  be  better  soon." 

"  Do  not  delay  it  too  long." 

.  Another  hour  elapsed,  and  still  the  little  sufferer  was  no 
better.  His  breathing  was  extremely  difficult,  and  the 
cough  was  more  frequent  and  hard.  The  mother's  remedy 
had  apparently  produced  no  effect  whatever,  and  she  began 
to  be  alarmed  herself. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  send  for  the  doctor,"  said  she. 

"  Dr.  Broadbeam  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  I  determined,  when  I  paid  his  last  bill,  never  to  employ 
him  again." 


SEXD    FOR    THE    DOCTOR.  253 

"  Dr.  Slender  has  been  very  successful  in  croup,"  added 
Mrs.  Barrington,  "  and  I  should  feel  just  as  much  confidence 
in  him  as  in  Dr.  Broadbeam." 

"  I  will  send  for  him." 

In  less  than  fifteen  minutes  after  the  messenger  left  the 
house,  the  young  physician  arrived.  Of  course  he  was  not  a 
little  astonished  to  be  roused  from  his  bed  by  a  summons 
from  the  "  leading  man  of  the  village ;  "  but  he  had  chosen 
his  profession,  and  considered  it  a  duty  to  go  whenever  and 
wherever  he  was  called. 

Dr.  Slender  examined  the  child. 

"  You  should  have  procured  a  physician  before,"  said  he, 
shaking  his  head  ominously. 

Mr.  Barrington's  heart  rose  to  his  throat.  His  frame 
trembled,  and  he  was  so  nervous  that  he  was  forced  to  cling 
to  the  bedpost  for  support. 

"  Is  he  dangerous,  doctor?  "  asked  he. 

"  Three  hours  ago,  it  would  not  have  been  a  bad  case.  I 
doubt  if  he  can  be  saved  now.  But  there  is  no  time  to  be 
lost.  Bring  me  some  cold  water  and  some  linen  cloths." 

Dr.  Slender  gave  the  child  a  potion  of  medicine,  and 
applied  himself  with  so  much  energy  to  the  means  of  effect- 
ing a  cure,  that  the  parents  were  inspired  with  hope,  and 
felt  entire  confidence  in  his  skill. 

Morning  dawned  upon  the  little  patient,  and  he  was  ap- 
parently in  the  last  stages  of  the  fell  disease.  Dr.  Slender 
still  remained  by  him,  and  was  now  adopting  the  last  resort 
known  to  the  physician.  The  agony  of  the  parents  can  be 
conceived  by  those  who  have  watched  over  the  death  bed  of 
a  cherished  little  one,  but  it  cannot  be  described. 

Providence  smiled  upon  the  young  physician,  and  he  had 
22 


254  SEND    FOB    THE    DOCTOR. 

the  inexpressible  satisfaction,  before  noon,  of  declaring  that 
the  child  would  recover.  A  paean  of  praise  rose  from  the 
grateful  hearts  of  the  devoted  parents.  In  a  few  days  little 
Charley  was  as  well  as  ever,  and  the  reputation  of  Dr.  Slender 
was  made. 

The  star  of  Dr.  Broadbeam  had  set.  The  young  physician 
in  a  few  months  secured  the  entire  practice-  of  the  place. 
The  potent  influence  of  Mr.  Barrington  was  all  he  needed  to 
insure  his  success.  He  was  polite  and  affable  in  his  profes- 
sional intercourse  .with  his  patients,  and  the  contrast  between 
him  and  his  crusty  rival  was  so  striking  that  every  body 
wondered  how  they  had  been  able  to  endure  the  latter. 

Dr.  Broadbeam  was  compelled  to  "  leave  town."  Whether 
or  not  he  has  learned  that  a  decent  deportment  towards  his 
patients  is  expedient,  we  are  unable  to  say.  But  we  infer 
that  he  has,  from  the  fact  that,  unable  to  establish  himself 
again  in  practice,  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  manufacture 
and  sale  of  patent  medicine  ;  and  "  Broadbeam's  Celebrated 
Chinese  Antibilious  Pills "  are  as  popular  as  advertising 
and  false  certificates  can  make  them. 

Mr.  Barrington  has  decided  that  it  is  best  to  send  for  the 
doctor  when  the  baby  sneezes.  Dr.  Slender  is  always  willing 
to  come  when  he  is  sent  for,  and  laughingly  maintains  that 
he  is  just  as  well  satisfied  to  pocket  his  fee  for  saying  noth- 
ing ails  the  baby,  as  for  giving  it  an  emetic. 


"FOUR  KINDS  OF    CAKE." 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  IT  is  all  folly,  wife !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  <£ptham  Somes,  a 
mattsr-ot-fact,  plain-spoken  sort  of  man,  to  his  better  half. 
"  There  you  have  got  no  less  than  four  kinds  of  cake,  three 
kinds  of  pies,  two  kinds  of  preserves,  to  say  nothing  of 
knickknacks  and  gimcracks." 

The  fact  was,  that  Mrs.  Somes  was  having  the  minister 
a-nd  his  wife  and  two  grown-up  daughters  to  take  tea  with 
her.  She  had  been  engaged  for  three  days  in  the  prepara- 
tions, and  such  a  display  of  nice  things  was  calculated  to 
astonish  the  minister  and  his  family  —  to  give  them  a  two- 
fold surprise  —  first,  at  the  variety  and  extent  of  her  culinary 
resources,  and,  secondly,  at  her  folly  in  attempting  to  make 
a  display  far  beyond  her  means. 

The.  Someses  were  in  comfortable  circumstances.  Mr. 
Somes  was  a  farmer,  and  probably  his  income  might  have 
amounted  to  four  hundred  dollars  per  annum. 

Mrs.  Somes  was  a  prudent,  careful  housewife,  who  wasted 
no  more  of  her  culinary  skill  upon  her  own  family  than  v/as 
absolutely  necessary ;  but  she  delighted  in  making  a  grand 
appearance  when  she  had  company.  Mr.  Somee  ar.o.  the 
boys  were  sometimes  so  ill  natured  as  to  growl  at  her  ca:cful 
catering  when  the  house  contained  no  company,  and  it  cut 

(260 


256  FOUK  KINDS  OF  CAKE. 

them  to  the  bone  to  see  such  extraordinary  preparations  for 
the  neighbors.  It  was  "kiss  the  cook"  when  they  were 
alone ;  but  the  board  groaned  with  plenty  when  there  were 
guests  present. 

Mr.  Jotham  Somes  had  just  come  from  the  sitting  room, 
where  the  table,  with  all  its  tempting  array  of  viands,  was 
spread.  He  did  not  like  it  a  bit,  and  after  passing  the  time 
of  day  with  the  parson  and  his  family,  he  proceeded  to  the 
kitchen,  where  his  wife  was  just  taking  the  hot  biscuit  out 
of  the  oven.  , 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  folly,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  '* 
replied  Mrs.  Jotham  Somes,  somewhat  tartly. 

She  was  a  second  wife,  and  having  been  redeemed  from 
one  of  the  advance  stages  of  maidenhood,  her  temper  had 
grown  a  little  sour  before  she  became  a  wife. 

"  The  folly  of  setting  a  table  as  you  have  yours,"  replied 
the  husband.  "I  should  think  you  were  going  to  have  the 
president  and  the  royal  family  to  take  tea  with  you." 

"  I  am  going  to  have  the  Rev.  Mr.  Meeklie  and  his 
family." 

"  But  I  can't  afford  such  extravagance  as  this.  You  will 
ruin  me." 

"  I  will  take  care  of  my  business  if  you  will  of  yours," 
returned  the  lady,  slamming  the  oven  door. 

"  Perhaps  this  is  not  my  business." 

"  No,  I'm  sure  it  is  not." 

"  "Who  pays  for  all  them  gewgaws  and  gimcracks  ?  " 

"  You  <3o,  of  course." 

"  But  it  is  none  of  my  business  ?  " 

"  No  •  I  never  thought  before  you  were  so  confounded 
ncan,"  said  tie  lady,  her  face  reddening  with  anger. 


i'OUB    KINDS    OF    CAKE.  .  ^  267 

"  Mean  !  I'm  not  mean.  But  when  you  get  victuals  for 
your  own  family,  you  think  almost  any  thing  is  good  enough 
for  them.  We  never  see  any  pies,  and  cakes,  and  knick- 
knacks." 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  make  pies  and  cakes  for  the 
men  folks  to  eat  every  day  ?  "  retorted  the  indignant  house- 
keeper. 

"  Then  don't  do  it  for  company.  What  is  good  enough 
for  me  is  as  good  as  I  can  afford  to  give  my  visitors." 

"  I  really  believe,  if  you  had  your  way,  you  would  have 
me  as  mean  with  company  as  the  Smiths." 

"  The  Smiths  are  as  good  folks  and  as  liberal  as  any  in 
town ;  and  I'll  warrant  Parson  Meeklie  thinks  a  heap  more 
of  them  than  he  does  of  you,  with  all  your  four  kinds  of 
cake." 

"  You're  a  fool,  Mr.  Somes  !  " 

"  I  am  fool  enough  to  know  that  folks  are  not  judged  by 
the  quantity  of  sweet  cake  they  put  upon  the  table  when 
they  have  company.  I  repeat  it  —  there  is  no  better  folks 
in  town  than  the  Smiths." 

"  I  s'pose  not ;  but  they  had  nothing  but  cold  biscuit  and 
molasses  gingerbread  when  we  took  tea  there." 

"  That's  as  good  as  they  can  afford ;  but  it  is  no  better 
than  they  have  every  day,  and  I  admire  their  independence." 

"  They're  contemptible,  mean  folks,  there  !  " 

"  Why  ?  Because  they  don't  attempt  to  make  folks  be- 
lieve they  live  better  than  they  do  ?  For  my  part,  I  don't 
think  it  is  any  better  than  hypocrisy  to  make  such  a  parade 
as  you  do,  especially  when  it  is  hard  work  for  me  and  the 
boys  to  get  a  decent  meal  of  victuals." 

"  Did  any  body  ever  hear  the  like  ? "  groaned  the  lady, 
22* 


258  FOUR.  KINDS  OF  CAKE. 

who  had   by  this  time  arrived  at  that  pitch   of  excitement 
when  tears  are  more  effective  than  words. 

"  Perhaps  they  never  did  ;  but  if  ever  I  see  any  thing  of 
this  sort  again,  they  will  be  pretty  likely  to  hear  of  it,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Somes,  throwing  off  his  blue  frock,  and  commen- 
cing his  preparations  for  taking  tea  with  the  minister. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE  plate  of  hot  biscuit  was  placed  in  the  midst  of  the 
profusion  of  fancy  eatables  with  which  the  table  was  crowded. 
The  minister  and  his  family  were  duly  seated,  and  the  cere- 
mony was  proceeding  decently  and  in  order. 

Mrs.  Somes  had  not  wholly  recovered  from  the  excitement 
of  the  interview  in  the  kitchen,  and  her  hand  trembled 
slightly  as  she  handed  Mrs.  Meeklie  her  tea.  Mr.  Somes 
had  donned  his  best  blue  coat,  with  brass  buttons,  which  had 
done  duty  as  a  Sunday  garment  for  the  past  fifteen  years. 

He  seemed  to  be  somewhat  uneasy ;  and  though  he  and 
the  minister  had  always  been  on  the  best  of  terms,  his 
answers  were  too  short  and  crusty  for  a  courteous  host. 

"  Won't  you  pass  the  biscuit  to  Mrs.  Meeklie,  husband  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Somes,  with  her  sweetest  smile,  albeit  not  very 
eweet  at  that. 

Mr.  Somes  did  pass  the  biscuit  to  Mrs.  Meeklie,  and  she 
took  one  ;  but  when  he  passed  them  to  Mr.  Meeklie,  he 
smilingly  declined. 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Somes  ;  I  never  eat  hot  bread.  It 
docs  not  agree  with  mo,"  said  he. 

Mrs.  Somes  passed  the  cold  bread,  thinking  all  the  time 


FOUR    KINDS    OF    CAKE.  259 

now  very  uncivil  it  was  in  the  parson  to  refuse  the  hot  bis- 
cuit she  had  taken  so  much  pains  to  prepare. 

But  Mr.  Meeklie  was  very  respectful  to  his  stomach ;  for 
he  found,  when  insulted  and  imposed  upon,  that  it  was  ty- 
rannical and  disagreeable  ;  and  he  paid  more  deference  to  his 
digestive  organs  than  he  did  to  the  feelings  of  his  vain  pa- 
rishioners. 

"  My  biscuit  are  not  very  nice  ;  I  did  not  have  as  good 
luck  as  I  generally  do,"  suggested  Mrs.  Somes,  as  Mrs. 
Meeklie  took  a  second  cake. 

"  Better,"  interposed  Mr.  Somes 

The  lady  looked  at  him  with  very  evident  marks  of  dis- 
pleasure. 

"  They  are  very  nice,';  said  the  parson's  wife. 

"  Take  a  little  more  of  this  quince  preserve,  Miss  Meeklie. 
I  dare  say  it  is  not  so  nice  as  your  mother  makes  ;  but  the 
truth  is " 

"  It  has  stood  too  long,"  interrupted  Mr.  Somes.  "  The 
jar  has  not  been  opened  since  you  were  here  last  fall." 

Mrs.  Somes  looked  daggers  ;  but  the  parson  very  consid- 
erately asked  Mr.  Somes  whether  he  had  done  planting  just 
at  that  moment,  and  her  anger  evaporated  without  any  un- 
pleasant effects. 

"  Husband,  won't  you  pass  that  cake  to  Mr.  Meeklie  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Somes  ;  I  never  eat  cake.  Your  bread 
is  very  good  ;  I  will  thank  you  for  some  more." 

"  Really,  Mr.  Meeklie,  you  will  take  some  of  this  cake  ? 
It  is  not  rich  ;  there  is  very  little  butter  in  it." 

"  Not  any,  I  thank  you  ;  I  never  eat  cake,  unless  it  be 
something  very  simple,  such  as  gingerbread  or  molasses 
cake." 


260  FOUR  KINDS  OF  CAKE. 

What  a  calamity !  Four  kinds  of  cake,  and  the  parson 
wouldn't  touch  one  of  them  ! 

"  But  you  will  take  some  of  these  jumbles  ;  I  made  tnem 
on  purpose  for  you." 

"  That's  a  fact,  Mr.  Meeklie,"  added  Mr.  Somes,  mali- 
ciously. 

He  would  further  have  added  that  his  wife  never  mada 
pies  and  cakes  for  her  own  family ;  but  he  was  afraid  of 
frightening  the  parson. 

"  You  must  excuse  me.  I  doubt  not  they  are  very  nice ; 
but  I  have  to  be  careful." 

Mrs.  Meeklie  and  her  two  grown-up  daughters  were  more 
courteous,  and  each  nibbled  a  small  bit  of  the  rich  pound 
cake  ;  but  they  seemed  to  do  it  against  their  consciences, 
and  against  their  better  judgment. 

The  truth  was,  they  felt  embarrassed  by  the  extraordinary 
display  Mrs.  Somes  had  made.  They  did  not  feel  at  home. 
The  whole  affair  was  too  set  and  artificial  to  be  enjoyed,  and 
at  an  early  hour  the  whole  party  withdrew,  mentally  deter- 
mining to  make  it  a  long  time  before  they  took  tea  with 
Mrs.  Somes  again. 


CHAPTER    III. 

"  WIFE,  where  is  the  piece  of  meat  I  sent  home  for  din- 
ner ?  "  asked  Farmer  Somes,  as  he  and  the  boys  came  in  for 
their  noonday  meal  on  the  day  following  the  tea  party. 

The  farmer  glanced  inquiringly  at  the  table  which  was 
spread  before  him.  Involuntarily  his  nasal  organ  contracted 
longitudinally ;  it  would  not  be  polite  to  say  he  "  turned  u,1* 


FOTJK    KIXDS    OF    CAKE.  261 

his  ncsc,"  though  such  was  the  fact  beyond  the  possibility 
of  denial. 

Farmer  Somes  was  not,  in  any  sense,  an  epicure.  He 
liked  a  plain,  substantial  diet,  that  "  which  was  good,  and 
enough  of  it,"  as  he  forcibly  expressed  his  ideas  of  table 
economy. 

Lest  the  reader  should  suppose*he  was  one  of  those  grouty, 
ill-natured  "  feeders,"  who  would  grumble  at  the  ambrosia 
and  nectar  of  the  gods,  we  deem  it  necessary  to  particularize 
the  articles  on  the  board  of  the  lady  who  placed  four  kinds 
of  cake  before  company. 

Certainly  there  was  variety  enough  to  satisfy  the  most 
fickle  taste.  On  a  broken  plate  —  the  best  dishes  were  reli- 
giously reserved  to  the  use  of  company  —  was  the  half  of 
one  sausage  and  two  thirds  of  another,  making  one  sausage 
and  one  sixth,  all  told.  They  were  partially  embedded  in  a 
petrified  sea  of  suspicious-looking  fat,  and,  altogether,  the 
aspect  of  the  dish  was  singularly  forbidding. 

On  a  white  plate,  with  a  long  black  fracture  extending 
quite  across  it,  lay,  in  an  aggregated  mass,  three  dozen  baked 
beans,  and  an  infinitesimal  fragment  of  a  pork  rind.  This 
was  an  antiquity.  Farmer  Somes  and  the  boys  had  a  very 
distinct  remembrance  of  having  seen  this  dish  every  day 
during  the  previous  fortnight,  proving  that  Mrs.  Somes  was 
not  only  one  of  the  most  economical,  but  one  of  the  most 
persevering  dames  in  the  world.  The  farmer  and  the  boys 
had  virtually  said  they  would  not  eat  those  same  beans,  and 
Mrs.  Somes  virtually  said  they  should. 

On  a  worn-out  blue  plate,  superannuated,  and  "  nicked  " 
in  a  thousand  places,  were  four  pork  bones,  looking  as 
though  they  had  been  preyed  upon  by  that  army  of  mice 


262  FOUK  KINDS  OF  CAKE. 

which  Whittington's  cat  destroyed.  These  bones  had  seen 
service  during  the  last  twelve  days  ;  the  joint,  of  which  they 
were  the  disintegrated  members,  had  graced  the  table  just  a 
fortnight  before. 

There  were  sundry  other  articles,  antique,  old-fashioned 
•'  titbits,"  which  might  have  been  set  before  Noah  and  his 
friends  in  the  ark.  Six  long  red  potatoes,  unpeeled,  even 
unsprouted,  completed  the  array  of  edibles,  ornamental  and 
substantial. 

The  farmer's  nose  contracted,  as  before  related. 

"  Where  is  the  meat  I  sent  home  ?  " 

"  Hanging  in  the  well." 

"  Hadn't  we  better  eat  it  ?  " 

"  I  want  it  for  company  next  Sunday.'' 

"  The ahem  !     Company  again  ?  " 

"  I  expect  my  brother  will  dine  with  us  then,  and  I  want 
something  fit  to  set  before  him." 

Mr.  Somes  looked  sulky. 

•  "  And  you  mean  to  starve  me  and  the  boys  in  the  mean 
time  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  know  if  there  is  not  enough  for  you  ?  " 
said  the  dame,  pointing  at  the  table. 

Farmer  Somes  turned  up  his  nose. 

"  Did  I  ever  refuse  to  buy  victuals  when  you  wanted  it? " 
said  he,  rather  sternly. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of;  but  I  didn't  suppose  you  wanted 
to  buy  fresh  meat  every  day,"  returned  the  wife,  sourly.  "  I 
am  sure  I  try  to  be  as  economical  as  I  can." 

"  Four  kinds  of  cake,  which  nobody  would  touch,  I  sup- 
pose is  prudent,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  Ah,  good  morning,  Mr.  Somes ;  I  am  glad  to  find  you 


FOUR    KINDS    OF    CAKE.  203 

at  home,"  said  Mr.  Mceklie,  walking  into  the  room  unan- 
nounced. 

Good  gracious !  the  minister,  and  with  such  a  table  as 
that  spread  before  the  family  !  What  a  commentary  on 
four  kinds  of  cake  for  company  ! 

Mrs.  Somes  was  all  confusion.  Though  the  parson  in- 
tended to  look  right  at  the  farmer,  she  could  see  that  more 
than  once  his  eyes  wanueied  over  the  table. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  parson ;  sil  down  and  take  some  din- 
ner with  us,"  said  Mr.  Somes,  shaking  the  minister's  offered 
hand. 

"  Thank  you  ;  I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  replied  Mr.  Meeklie. 
"  I  have  a  long  walk  to  take  before  I  return  home." 

Farmer  Somes  was  pointing  him  to  a  chair,  when  the  lady 
interposed. 

"  We  have  got  a  picked-up  dinner  to-day.  Husband  sent 
home  a  joint  of  veal ;  but  it  didn't  get  here  till  half  after 
eleven ;  so  I  had  no  time  to  cook  it." 

"  Got  here  by  eight  o'clock,"  said  Farmer  Somes ;  "  no 
fibs  to  the  parson." 

"  But  if  you  will  wait  only  a  few  moments,  I  will  fry 
some  of  the  veal." 

"  Sit  down,  parson  ;  it  is  every  day  fare ;  but  then,  what 
is  good  enough  for  me  is  good  enough  for  my  friends." 

"  Right,  Mr.  Somes,"  replied  the  minister,  drawing  up  his 
chair.  "  My  business  relates  to  the  new  bell  for  the  meeting 
house.  I  am  carrying  round  the  subscription  paper." 

"  I  am  with  you,  parson." 

Farmer  Somes  was  in  most  malicious  good  humor,  and, 
with  a  broad  laugh  on  his  honest  phiz,  he  opened  the  paper 
the  minister  gave  him. 


264  rOUE  KINDS  OF  CAKE. 

"  Smith,  twenty  dollars." 

"  Twenty  dollars  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Somes  ;  "  I  should 
not  think  he  could  afford  it." 

"  He  gives  his  friends  nothing  but  gingerbread,"  said  the 
farmer.  "  Put  me  down  for  thirty  ;  we  have  four  kinds  of 
cake." 

The  parson  consumed  one  "  long  red,"  and  one  of  tne 
vulgar  fractions  of  a  cold  sausage.  He  preferred  brown 
bread  to  white,  and  wouldn't  touch  any  of  the  pies  which 
the  prudent  housekeeper  set  before  him. 

Mrs.  Somes  was  awfully  mortified.  Her  reputation  was 
sacrificed,  and  Farmer  Somes  never  again  had  occasion  to 
find  fault  with  her  for  making  a  vain  show  of  three  kinds  of 
pies,  two  kinds  of  preserves,  and  four  kinds  of  cake. 


EXTREMES  MEET; 

OB, 

FACT     AND      FICTION. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"WHAT  are  you  reading,  sis?" 

"  Hard  Times." 

"  A  novel !  " 

"  Yes ;  why  not  ?  Dickens's  last  new  novel,  and  a  capi- 
tal thing  it  is,  too." 

The  two  ladies,  between  whom  this  conversation  passed, 
were  sisters,  and  nieces  of  one  of  the  better  class  of  New 
England  farmers,  with  whom  they  resided.  'Squire  Fair- 
bank,  without  being  a  very  brilliant  man,  had  acquired  con- 
siderable distinction. in  the  village  where  he  lived,  probably 
because,  besides  being  "  worth  money,"  he  was  a  straight- 
forward, conservative,  reliable  man,  and  had  frequently 
served  the  town  in  an  acceptable  manner,  both  in  the  legis- 
lature, and  as  moderator  in  town  meeting.  He  was  the 
most  notable  man  in  the  village,  and  won  the  title  of  'Squire, 
which  was  universally  accorded  to  him,  simply  by  being  a 
very  respectable  person  and  a  man  of  influence. 

Susan  and  Mary  Fairbank  were  orphans,  inheriting  from 
their  father  the  very  pretty  little  sum  of  five  thousand  dollars 
each.  Both  had  attained  their  majority,  and  consequently 

(265) 


266  EXTREMES    MEIJT. 

•were  in  full  possession  of  their  portions,  untrammelled  even 
by  the  authority  of  as  indulgent  a  guardian  as  'Squire  Fair- 
bank  had  proved  to  be. 

They  had  been  well  educated  at  a  celebrated  female  sem- 
inary in  the  vicinity  of  Boston,  and  as  a  matter  of  course, 
had  brought  home  to  -the  quiet  village  of  Poppleton  many 
strange  notions  and  remarkable  peculiarities.  But  they  were 
sensible  girls  in  the  main,  and  though  their  habits  and  edu- 
cation elevated  them  above  the  reigning  ton  of  the  place,  it 
was  generally  conceded  that  they  knew  "  what  was  what," 
and  were  not  "  a  mite  more  stuck  up  "  than  would  naturally 
have  been  expected. 

Mary  and  Susan  were  essentially  different  in  temperament 
and  disposition.  The  former  was  exceedingly  open  and  free 
hearted,  while  the  latter  was  rather  disposed  to  truckle  to 
the  formality  of  the  world,  or  to  the  circumstances  in  which 
she  happened  to  be  placed.  Mary  never  asked  what  the 
world  would  say  or  think,  and  while  her  notions  of  duty 
were  very  clearly  defined,  she  chose  to  be  independent  and 
straightforward.  Pe-ople  said  she  "  took  after  "  her  father. 

Susan,  on  the  contrary,  was  nicely  sensitive  to  the  good 
opinion  of  others.  She  had  not  the  energy  to  do  any  thing 
in  opposition  to  popular  sentiment.  Indeed,  she  was  very 
much  like  some  of  the  distinguished  public  servants  at  Wash- 
ington, who  do  every  thing  with  an  eye  to  a  reelection  or  >4 
government  patronage. 

A  short  time  before  our  story  opens,  a  young  minister  had 
been  settled  in  Poppleton,  and  being  a  single  man,  'Squire 
Fairbank  had  consented  as  a  special  favor  to  receive  him 
into  his  house.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Carlisle  was  universally  al- 
lowed to  be  a  very  promising  young  man.  He  was  talented 


EXTEEMES    MEET.  267 

had  a  graceful  elocution,  and,  what  pleased  the  young  ladies 
better  still,  was  decidedly  a  handsome  person.  Those  who 
were  not  much  influenced  by  talent,  elocution,  and  personal 
beauty,  thought  he  was  rather  bigoted  for  jjne  so  young,  and 
hoped  that  time  would  wear  off  the  rough  corners  of  his 
repulsive  theology. 

Susan  Fairbank  was  deeply  interested  in  the  young  cler- 
gyman, and  as  a  natural  consequence  to  one  of  her  vacil- 
lating temperament,  became  deeply  interested  in  spiritual 
things.  We  do  not  believe  she  had  any  intention  of  playing 
the  hypocrite ;  but  her  devotion  to  the  young  minister  in- 
voluntarily led  her  to  assume  an  interest,  which,  if  Mr.  Car- 
lisle had  been  old,  ugly,  or  married,  she  would  not  have  felt. 

"  A  novel,  sis  !  only  think  of  it !  "  exclaimed  Susan, 
holding  up  both  hands  with  pious  horror. 

"  Pray,  Susan,  how  long  is  it  since  you  have  possessed 
this  holy  repugnance  to  novels  ?  It  was  only  last  winter  that 
I  saw  you  reading  The  Children  of  th»  Abbey,"  returned 
Mary,  laughing  heartily. 

"  I  have  not  read  one  since,  and  I  never  mean  to  again." 

"  Fudge  !  " 

"  What  do  you  think  Mr.  Carlisle  would  say  if  he  should 
see  you  reading  a  novel  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  care  what  he  said." 

"  Why,  Mary  !  " 

"  I  shouldn't ;  if  he  does  not  like  it,  he  may  whistle  for 
all  me." 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Mary." 

"  Why  will  you  make  a  fool  of  yourself,  Susan  ?  Mr. 
Carlisle  cares  no  more  for  you  than  he  does  for  the  fifth 
wheel  of  a  coach ;  I  would  not  stand  in  such  fear  of  him  for 
the  world." 


268  EXTREMES    MEET. 

"  Fear  of  him  !  I  do  not  fear  him ;  I  only  respect  him 
as  a  very  good  man." 

"  You  have  set  your  cap  for  him  ;  but  let  me  tell  you  to 
be  more  independent,  or  you  never  will  catch  him,"  said 
Mary,  laughing. 

"  How  absurd  you  talk  !  " 

"Do  I?" 

Susan  fell  to  biting  her  finger  nail  —  a  very  vulgar  habit, 
by  the  way  —  and  to  thinking  of  something  which  her  sister 
had  no  difficulty  in  discerning. 

"  Do  you  really  love  him,  Susan  ?  "  asked  Mary. 

"  Love  him  !     No  ;  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing." 

Perhaps  she  never  did. 

"  What  makes  you  go  to  all  the  prayer  meetings,  and 
mope  round  the  house  like  a  sick  owl,  then  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  am  under  conviction,"  replied  Susan,  demurely. 

"  Conviction  of  what  ?  " 

"  Conviction  of  sjn." 

"  Conviction  that  Mr.  Carlisle  is  a  very  handsome  fellow, 
more  like." 

"  How  absurd  you  are  !  " 

"  And  I  have  heard  a  report  round  town  that  you  were 
going  to  join  the  church." 

"  I  have  spoken  to  Mr.  Carlisle  about  it." 

Mary  looked  serious  for  a  moment. 

"  If  you  really  feel  so,  I  commend  your  conduct ;  but  I 
advise  you  not  to  be  too  hasty.  Examine  your  heart  atten- 
tively, and  do  not  bring  scandal  upon  the  church  by  having 
side  motives.  But  here  comes  Mr.  Carlisle,"  said  Mary,  as 
she  again  turned  her  attention  to  the  fascinating  pages  of 
Hard  Times. 


EXTEEMES    MEET.  269 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE  young  minister  entered  the  room.  Susan  had  taken 
up  Saints'  Rest,  which  lay  by  her,  and  commenced  reading 
where  she  had  left  off,  when  she  saw  Mr.  Carlisle  coming  up 
the  yard.  As  he  came  into  the  room  she  laid  down  the 
hook,  and  looked,  for  all  the  world,  as  though  she  had  not  i 
friend  in  the  world.  The  assuming  of  this  appearance  was 
involuntary  on  her  part;  it  was  in  accordance  with  her 
nature. 

Mr.  Carlisle  seated  himself  by  her  side,  and  commenced 
catechizing  her  in  regard  to  the  impression  the  contents  of 
the  book  produced  upon  her  mind  —  whether  it  afforded  her 
consolation  in  her  troubled  mind  —  and  finally  whether  she 
really  thought  she  had  a  hope.  To  all  these  queries  Susan 
replied  in  a  satisfactory  manner,  assuring  the  handsome 
young  shepherd  that  she  had  been  much  edified  by  her 
reading. 

There  was  a  smile  of  mischief  playing  upon  the  pretty 
and  expressive  face  of  Mary,  as  she  peered  over  the  top  of 
Hard  Times,  to  observe  the  ghostly  interview.  She  could 
see  that  Mr.  Carlisle  engaged  in  the  conversation  with  her 
sister  merely  as  a  matter  of  professional  interest  —  sincerely, 
it  is  true,  but  with  no  unusual  interest  in  the  penitent.  He 
regarded  her  as  a  wandering  sheep,  whom  it  was  his  duty  to 
bring  into  the  fold. 

But  she  compassionated  her  sister,  who  had  deluded  her- 
self into  the  belief  that  she  could  win  the  heart  of  the  shep- 
herd by  becoming  one  of  his  sheep  ;  and  she  was  provoking 
23* 


270  EXTREMES   MEET. 

enough  to  tell  her  that  instead  of  making  a  sheep,  she  had 
made  a  calf  of  herself. 

When  the  minister  had  finished  his  professional  counsel, 
he  turned  to  Mary.  As  he  did  so,  an  involuntary  smile  came 
upon  his  lips.  It  was  not  the  smile  of  a  ghostly  father,  but 
of  a  young  man  who  has  flesh  in  his  heart  and  blood  in  nis 
veins. 

Mary  laid  down  her  book  as  she  noticed  his  intention  to 
address  her. 

"  "What  are  you  reading,  Miss  Fairbank  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Hard  Times,"  promptly  replied  Mary. 

"  A  novel  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

The  jaw  of  the  young  minister  dropped  down  two  inches. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  O,  very  much,  indeed !  "  replied  Mary,  with  wicked 
enthusiasm ;  "  I  admire  Dickens's  of  all  the  novels  I  ever 
read." 

"  Do  you  make  a  practice  of  reading  novels  ?  " 

"  I  seldom  read  any  thing  else.  I  did  read  Reveries  of  a 
Bachelor  and  Dream  Life." 

The  minister  shook  his  head. 

"  I  take  the  newspapers,  and  I  always  read  them  through 
—  stories,  poetry,  sentiment,  editorials,  and  all." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  suggest  some  reading  for  you  ?  and 
I  shall  take  the  greatest  pleasure  in  lending  you  the  books." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Baxter's  Call  to  the  Unconverted  is  an  excellent  book 
for " 

"  It  is  so  stupid  !  " 

Mr.  Carlisle  was  horrified. 


fiXTREMES    MEET.  271 

"  I  would  not  be  hired  to  read  it." 

"  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress,  perhaps,  would  suit  your 
ste  better." 

"  I  have  read  it ;  but  don't  you  call  that  a  novel  ?  " 

"  An  allegory." 

"  If  I  mistake  not,  I  saw  you  reading  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin. 
I'm.  sure  that  is  a  novel,  and  no  better  novel  either  than  any 
of  Dickens's." 

"  It  is  a  moral  and  philanthropic  work." 

"  So  are  Dickens's  works.  Indeed,^I  have  never  read  a 
novel  from  which  a  great  deal  of  good  might  not  be  ob- 
tained, though  I  know  there  are  such." 

'•  Mere  fictions  generally  have  a  debasing  tendency." 

"I  judge  novels  as  I  do  anything  else  —  by  their  own 
merits.  If  I  understand  you,  Mr.  Carlisle,*  you  object  to 
works  of  fiction,  as  such,  and  not  on  account  of  any  evil 
they  may  contain." 

"  Certainly." 

"  You  insist  that  the  book  must  be  true  in  its  narrative  in 
order  to  be  good." 

"  I  do." 

"  Then  you  despise  the  teachings  of  Him  you  .profess  to 
serve.  He  spoke  in  parables  —  in  fiction.  I  do  not  under- 
stand the  Prodigal  Son  to  be  a  narrative  of  facts." 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"  Then  why  may  not  Scott,  Dickens,  Irving,  Miss  Bremer, 
and  Miss  Leslie  teach  us  love  and  charity  through  the  same 
medium  ?  " 

"  Such  works  vitiate  the  taste." 

"  O,  it  is  the  taste,  and  not  the  heart,  that  is  damaged." 

"Both;  the  latter  through  the  former.     Let  me  induce 


272  .         EXTREMES    MEET. 

you  to  read  Baxter's  Call,  and  you  will  then  allow  that  yon 
have  obtained  more  real  good  from  it  than  from  all  tne 
novels  you  ever  read  in  your  life." 

"  It  is  too  dull  and  insipid  for  me.  I  must  draw  my  in- 
spiration from  more  sparkling  fountains." 

"  You  misjudge  the  book." 

"  Perhaps  I  do.  I  am  not  a  saint,  I  am  willing  to  ac- 
knowledge ;  therefore  it  does  not  suit  me.  And  I  fancy  it 
is  so  with  half  the  world,  who,  rejecting  the  counsels  of  the 
church,  get  their  wisdom  and  their  goodness  from  works  of 
fiction.  They  are  readable  to  those  whose  taste,  like  mine, 
has  not  become  sanctified ;  without  them  they  would  read 
nothing,  and  thus  the  world  is  the  better  for  novels." 

Mr.  Carlisle  could  not  but  grant  that  there  was  some  truth 
in  what  Mary  had  said  ;  and  though  he  did  not,  in  so  many 
words,  yield  the  point,  an  impression  was  produced  upon  his 
mind  which  could  not  fail  to  soften  down  the  bigotry  of  his 
views. 

But  the  merry,  fearless,  independent  tones  of  the  eloquent 
advocate  of  works  of  fiction  went  deeper  down  than  the 
mind,  and  touched  a  weak  spot  in  his  theological  heart. 
Her  pretty,  sparkling  eye,  roused  and  animated  by  her  ear- 
nest thought,  were  irresistible ;  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Carlisle, 
maugre  the  carnal  nature  of  the  fair  debater,  actually  fell  in 
love  with  the  contemner  of  Baxter's  immortal  works. 

Mary  was  undoubtedly  a  great  sinner,  but  she  was  a  beau- 
tiful and  spirited  girl  for  all  that.  We  will  not  trouble  the 
reader  with  the  ingenious  plans  which  the  enamoured  minis- 
ter  laid  that  night  to  reclaim  the  erring  beauty ;  it  is  only 
necessary  to  say  that,  within  a  week,  he  popped  the  question 
to  her;  and  that  she,  out  of  consideration  for  her  sister, 
refused  to  consider  the  proposal. 


EXTREMES    MEET.  273 


CHAPTER     III. 

N  was  a  docile  lamb,  and  her  conversion  progressed 
to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  her  spiritual  adviser.  It  was 
rumored  that  she  was  to  be  "  propounded  "  on  the  following 
Sabbath. 

Mary  had  quite  as  strong  a  veneration  for  spiritual  things 
as  her  sister ;  but  she  was  too  straightforward  to  assume 
what  she  did  not  possess,  and  too  sensible  to  be  led  into 
imaginary  raptures  by  any  extraneous  influence.  She  knew 
Susan  too  well  to  believe  her  holy  aspirations  were  real ;  she 
knew  that  the  poor  girl  had  involuntarily  deluded  herself. 
She  was  not  surprised  to  hear  that  she  had  concluded  to  join 
the  church. 

"  Susan,  you  are  deceiving  yourself.  You  love  the  fold 
£>r  the  sake  of  the  shepherd,"  said  she. 

"  Nay,  sister,  you  wrong  me.  Can  y»u  think  me  a  hypo- 
'crite?" 

"  Not  a  hypocrite  ;  you  have  misled  yourself." 

"  I  have  carefully  examined  my  heart,  and  I  am  confident 
that  I  am  not  deluded." 

"  What  would  you  say  if  I  should  tell  you  that  Mr.  Car- 
lisle can  never  love  you  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  that  you  knew  nothing  about  it,"  replied 
Susan,  unthinkingly;  but  in  an  instant  she  corrected  the 
mistake.  "  But  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  I  fear  it  has.  Tell  me  honestly,  Susan,  do  you  not  love 
Mr.  Carlisle  ?  I  will  not  laugh  at  you." 

Susan  hesitated. 


274  EXTREMES    MEET. 

'  Be  candid,  sister." 

"  I  do  not  love  him ;  but  if  he  loved  me,  I  feel  that  I 
could  return  his  affection." 

"  He  does  not  love  you,  Susan." 

The  ambitious  "  sheep  "  looked  earnestly  into  the  face  of 
her  sister. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  do  know." 

Susan  looked  pensive  and  sad. 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  That  he  has  even  offered  his  hand  and  heart  to  an- 
other." 

"  The  hypocrite  !  "  exclaimed  Susan,  with  a  flushed  face. 

"  Why,  sis  !  "  and  Mary  was  filled  with  astonishment,  for 
it  appeared  from  Susan's  violent  ebullition  of  feeling  that 
the  matter  had  passed  much  farther  than  she  had  suspected. 
"  Why  do  you  use  that  pointed  word  ?  Did  he  ever  speak 
to  you  of  love  ?  " 

"  Never  ;  but  he  has  led  me  to  believe  by  his  constant  at- 
tentions that  he  was  interested  in  me." 

"  That  was  professional,  sis ;  you  have  mistaken  his  zeal 
to  bring  you  into  the  fold  for  love.  I  warned  you  of  this." 

"  You  did ;  I  am  a  fool.  But  to  whom  has  he  offered 
himself." 

"  It  is  a  secret." 

"  Tell  me  !  " 

"  Will  you  be  discreet  ?  " 

"  I  will." 

"  To  me  !  " 

"  To  you  !  You  who  despised  Baxter's  Call  and  Saints' 
Best  r " 


_EXTEEMES    MEET.  275 

"  Even  so.     Extremes  meet  sometimes." 

"  I  wish  you  joy,  Mary." 

"  But  I  declined  the  offer." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  For  your  sake.     I  knew  that  you  loved  him." 

Susan  was  deeply  affected  at  the  generosity  of  her  sister. 

"  I  do  not  love  him,  sister.  Do  not  let  me  be  an  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  your  happiness." 

"  I  have  not  said  that  I  loved  him." 

"  But  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  have  refused  him." 

"  Nay,  he  is  a  noble  and  a  good  man,  besides  being  hand- 
some and  talented.  You  need  not  be  a  fool  because  I  have 
been.  I  assure  you  I  am  completely  cured ;  I  think  he  is  a 
flirt." 

Mary  did  not  think  so,  and  the  young  minister  was  too 
deeply  enamoured  of  her,  too  devotedly  admired  her  wit  and 
beauty,  no  less  than  her  innate  goodness  of  heart,  to  be  con- 
tent with  a  refusal.  When  he  renewed  his  suit,  the  spirited 
girl  was  more  tractable,  and  in  process  of  time  they  were 
married. 

Whether  Mr.  Carlisle  ever  succeeded  in  removing  those 
pernicious  notions  about  novels  from  the  mind  of  his  wife, 
we  are  unable  to  say ;  but  we  do  know  that  Scott,  Dickens, 
and  Irving  have  found  a  place  on  the  shelves  of  his  library, 
beside  the  tomes  of  theology  and  history ;  and  we  infer  that 
a  mutual  influence  has  brought  each  to  adopt  more  reasona- 
ble views  both  of  Baxter  and  the  novelists. 


THE  MERCANTILE  ANGEL. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  THE  contemptible  little  jackanapes  !  he  had  the  audaci- 
ty to  ask  me  to  play  whist  with  him !  "  exclaimed  Sophia 
Danvers  to  her  sister. 

"  And  why  should  he  not,  sister  ?  "  answered  Mary  Dan- 
vers, calmly. 

"  Why  should  he  not,  indeed-!  Did  he  think  I  would 
demean  myself  by  playing  whist  with  a  clerk  —  one  of  my 
father's  servants  ? "  and  Sophia  tossed  her  head  in  proud 
disdain. 

"  I  can  see  no  impropriety  in  your  associating  with  him, 
Sophia.  He  is  certainly  a  handsome,  intelligent,  and  well- 
behaved  young  man." 

"  Behaves  well  enough,  for  aught  I  know ;  but  only  think 
of  it  —  a  clerk  in  our  drawing  room  !  For  my  part,  I  wonder 
how  father  could  ever  think  of  such  a  thing  as  admitting  him 
into  the  family." 

"  I  suppose  it  was  because  he  liked  the  looks  of  him." 

"  "What  will  Mr.  Augustus  Fitzherbert  say  when  he  finds 
us  associating  with  poor  clerks  —  the  trash  of  counting 
rooms  ? " 

"  It  matters  little  to  me  what  he  thinks ;  he  is  a  conceited 

(276) 


THE    MERCANTILE   ANGEL.  277 

puppy,  and  I  wonder  that  you  can  endure  his  presence,"  re- 
plied Mary,  smartly. 

"  But  he  is  the  leader  of  tae  ton,  Mary,"  said  Sophia, 
astonished  at  the  plebeian  notions  of  her  sister. 

"  He  is  a  perfect  flat,  for  all  that,  and  infinitely  inferior, 
in  all  that  constitutes  a  man,  to  Mr.  Harlowe,  whom  you 
afiect  to  despise." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Mr. 
Danvers. 

"  How  could  you  bring  that  horrible  clerk  into  the  house, 
papa?"  said  Sophia,  as  the  merchant  prince  seated  himself 
by  the  blazing  grate. 

,  "  Horrible  clerk!  Pray,  what  is  the  matter  with  him?  " 
asked  Mr.  Danvers,  evincing  some  surprise  at  the  plain 
speech  of  his  daughter. 

"  Why,  he  is  a  clerk." 

"  But  a  respectable  young  man." 

"  Respectable  enough,  but  not  fashionable,  papa." 

"I  was  a  clerk  once,  Sophia;  I  commenced  by  sweeping 
out  a  store,  and  carrying  bundles  about  the  city." 

"  How  absurdly  you  talk,  papa  !  " 

"  But  Mr.  Harlowe  is  a  very  estimable  young  man ;  I  am 
confident  you  will  find  him  agreeable  company." 

"  I  shall  have  nothing  to  say  to  him,"  replied  Sophia, 
with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"Beware,  Sophia;  there  is  an  old  proverb,  you  know, 
about  entertaining  angels  unawares." 

Sophia  laughed  heartily  at  the  idea  of  a  poor  clerk  being 
an  angel. 

"  But  what  says  Mary  ? "  asked  the  merchant,  turning  to 
his  gentle-hearted  daughter. 
24 


278  THE  MERCANTILE' ANGEL. 

"  O,  J  like  him  very  much  ;  we  are  already  fast  friends,' 
replied  Mary,  and  a  slight  blush  seemed  to  emphasize  the 
remark. 

"  Just  like  her,  papa ;  I  should  not  wonder  if  she  got 
head  over  heels  in  love  with  your  mercantile  angel." 

"  She  must  do  as  she  pleases  about  that,"  replied  Mr. 
Danvers,  smiling. 

"  Pooh,  Sophy  !  who  said  a  word  about  falling  in  love  ? 
Can't  a  body  be  civil  to  a  young  gentleman  without  falling 
in  love  with  him  ?  " 

The  pretty  Mary  blushed  as  she  spoke,  in  good  earnest  — 
blushed  so  palpably  that  her  father  began  to  think  the  affair 
was  something  more  than  a  mere  jest. 

"  But  pray,  papa,  when  does  your  new  partner  arrive  ?  " 
asked  Sophia.  "  If  all  the  accounts  I  have  heard  of  his  wit, 
gallantry,  and  personal  attractions  are  true,  I  shall  certainly 
set  my  cap  for  him." 

"  He  will  appear  one  of  these  days,"  replied  Mr.  Danvers. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  keep  this  stupid  clerk  in  the  house 
after  he  comes." 

"  I  certainly  shall." 

"  But,  papa,  we  shall  '  lose  caste  '  if  you  do  ;  it  is  really 
abominable." 

"  Small  loss,  my  child.  If  we  are  dependent  upon  the 
apes  and  puppies  of  fashionable  life  for  our  position  in  so- 
ciety, the  sooner  we  lose  it  the  better  for  our  own  self-re- 
spect," said  Mr.  Danvers,  smiling  good  humoredly. 

"  You  are  absurd,  papa." 

"  Now,  Sophy,  you  have  given  me  a  lesson,  let  me  give 
you  one.  The  idol  you  worship  is  more  senseless  than  thosa 
of  the  Feegee  Islands.  Fashionable  society  is  as  hollow  as  a 


THE    MEBCAXTILE   AXGEL.  279 

brass  pan  ;  place  no  reliance  upon  it.  The  fops  and  foola 
who  follow  in  your  train  are  as  soulless  as  they  are  brain- 
less." 

"  I  wish  Mr.  Augustus  Fitzherbert  could  hear  you  say  so," 
added  Sophia." 

"  Mr.  Augustus  Fitzherbert  was  a  journeyman  barber  in 
New  Orleans  less  than  a  year  ago.  I  had  the  honor  of  be- 
ing shaved  by  him  last  winter  when  I  was  there." 

"  O,  horrid,  papa  !     Why  have  you  not  exposed  him  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I,  my  child  ?  He  is  as  good  a  fellow,  as 
sensible  a  person,  and,  according  to  your  statement,  as  fash- 
ionable a  man,  as  Mr.  Finstock,  whose  great  grandfather  was 
the  governor  of  the  state." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  Mr.  Fitzherbert  was  a  barber  ?  "  ex- 
claimed Sophia,  horrified  at  the  appalling  statement. 

"  Nothing  else,  my  child." 

"  An  impostor  ?  "  added  Mary. 

"  Just  so.     Probably  he  is  trying  to  obtain  a  rich  wife." 

"  It  is  abominable,  I  declare  !  One  hardly  knows,  nowa- 
days, who  is  respectable  and  who  is  not,"  said  Sophia. 

"  Therefore,  my  child,  we  ought  not  to  speak  so  dispar- 
agingly of  persons  in  humble  life  as  you  have  to-night." 

"  Pooh  !  a  clerk  !  " 

At  this  moment,  Mr.  Harlowe,  the  new  clerk,  entered  the 
room,  and,  as  Sophia  would  have  expressed  it,  had  the  im- 
pudence to  seat  himself  by  the  side- of  Mary  Danvers,  who 
appeared  not  at  all  averse  to  this  close  proximity  with  him. 

Frederic  Harlowe  was,  as  Mary  had  said,  a  handsome, 
intelligent,  and  agreeable  young  man ;  and  Sophia,  if  she 
could  have  forgiven  him  for  being  a  clerk,  would  have  ap- 
preciated his  society  quite  as  highly  as  did  her  sister. 


280  THE    MEBCANTILE    ANGEL. 

"With,  her  father's  permission,  Mary  accepted  an  invitation 
from  Frederic  to  attend  Alboni's  last  concert. 

They  had  scarcely  left  the  house  before  Mr.  Augustus  Fitz- 
herberfc  was  ushered  into  the  sitting  room.  This  gentleman 
was  an  exquisite  of  the  "  first  water."  In  his  personal  ap- 
pearance, he  certainly  was  sufficiently  well  endowed  to  chal- 
lenge the  admiration  of  the  fair  sex ;  but,  unfortunately,  he 
was  sadly  lacking  in  that  necessary  element  of  a  man  of 
sense  —  brains. 

Sophia  could  scarcely  refrain  from  expressing  the  contempt 
she  felt  for  the  journeyman  barber  in  disguise.  The  leader 
of  the  "  ton,"  in  her  estimation,  was  a  ruined  man. 

The  dandy,  as  a  matter  of  courtesy,  inquired  for  Mary, 
and  was  informed  that  she  had  gone  to  the  concert  with  Mr. 
Harlowe. 

"  With  Mr.  Harlowe  —  a  clerk — r  aw?  "  said  the  ex-jour- 
neyman barber,  with  a  sneer,  as  he  twirled  up  the  long  "  rat 
tail  "  of  his  mustache. 

"  A  very  worthy  young  man,"  replied  Mr.  Danvers. 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  saw  ;  but  a  clerk' —  aw." 

"  Pray,  were  you  never  a  clerk,  Mr.  Fitzherbert  ?    7  was." 

"  A  clerk  !     No,  saw  —  nevaw  !  " 

"  Did  I  not  meet  you  in  New  Orleans  last  winter  ?  " 

The  dandy  started  up  like  a  parched  pea  from  a  hot  pan. 

"  I  have  a  faint  recollection  of  having  met  you  in  a  bar- 
ber's shop  there,"  continued  the  merchant,  tormentingly. 

"  Aw,  very  likely,  saw.     I  patronize  the  barbaws." 

"  And,  now  I  think  of  it,  you  wore  a  little  white  apron, 
and,  if  I  mistake  not,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  being  shaved  by 
you  in  person." 
• "  Quite  a  mistake,  saw,  I  assuaw  you." 


THE    MERCANTILE    ANGEL.  281 

Suddenly  Mr.  Augustus  Fitzherbert,  whose  real  name  was 
John  Smike,  remembered  an  imperative  engagement,  and 
hastened  to  take  his  leave. 

He  was  seen  to  enter  the  cars  for  New  York  on  the  follow- 
ing day,  and  nothing  has  been  heard  of  him  since. 


CHAPTER    II. 

OF  course  the  reader  understands  that  Frederic  Harlowe 
and  Mary  are  deeply,  irretrievably  in  love  with  each  other 
by  this  time.  The  poor  clerk  had  won  his  way  to  the  heart 
of  the  fair  girl,  and  she,  poor  thing,  had  been  captivated  by 
the  manly  attractions,  the  noble  soul,  of  him  who  offered 
incense  before  her  shrine. 

As  the  world  goes,  it  would  be  deemed  a  very  wicked 
thing  for  a  poor  clerk  to  fall  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  his 
aristocratic  employer.  Some  people  would  say  it  was  un- 
grateful in  him  thus  to  spirit  away  the  affections  of  a  con- 
fiding girl,  when  his  position  and  prospects  did  not  warrant 
his  presuming  to  be  her  husband. 

These  questions  are  still  open  to  the  casuist.  He  may  de- 
bate them  to  his  entire  satisfaction ;  but  Mr.  Danvers,  either 
because  he  was  more  sensible  than  many  of  the  aristocratic 
merchants  of  the  day,  or  for  some  other  equally  potent  rea- 
son, neglected  to  make  any  fuss  about  the  matter,  and  suf- 
fered the  clerk  to  wob  and  win  his  daughter,  without  even 
remonstrating  against  the  wickedness  of  the  act. 

But  Sophia  was  deeply  grieved  by  her  sister's  folly,  as  she 
deemed  it,  and  used  all  the  arguments  in  the  range  of  her 
24* 


282  THE    MERCANTILE    AXGEL. 

shallow  sophistry  to  dissuade  her  from  the  folly  and  madness 
of  wedding  a  clerk. 

Mary  was  obstinate.  The  only  excuse  she  offered  in  pal- 
liation of  the  flagrant  misdemeanor  was,  that  she  loved  him  ; 
and  if  she  loved  a  scavanger,  she  would  cling  to  him  with 
the  last  breath  she  was  permitted  to  draw. 

"  A.  ring !  "  exclaimed  Sophia,  one  day,  when  matters  ap- 
peared to  have  taken  a  very  decided  turn.  "  Well,  well,  I 
suppose  you  are  engaged." 

"  We  are,  Sophia,"  replied  Mary,  with  a  face  radiant  with 
happiness. 

"  And*  you  intend  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  Certainly  we  do  ;  that  is  the  end  of  an  engagement." 

"  My  conscience  !  to  think  that  the  daughter  of  a  mer- 
chant prince  should  become  the  wife  of  a  poor,  insignificant 
clerk  !  " 

"  Nothing  very  alarming  about  it,  Sophy ;  it  wouldn't  be 
half  so  ridiculous  as  another  daughter  of  a  merchant  prince 
becoming  the  wife  of  an  ex-journeyman  barber.  I  believe 
Mr.  Augustus  Fitzherbert  was  your  beau  ideal  of  what  a 
fashionable  husband  ought  to  be." 

"  The  impostor  !  " 

"  I  am  at  least  sure  that  Frederic  is  not  an  impostor  —  a 
humbug ;  one  would  not  be  likely  to  assume  the  character 
of  a  clerk." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  pray,  sister,  when  do  you  intend  to 
become  the  wife  of  this  counting  room  cherub  ?  " 

"  The  day  has  not  been  fixed  yet ;  in  the  spring,  probably." 

"  And  may  I  ask  what  you  intend  to  do  with  yourself? 
His  salary  is  only  a  thousand  dollars  a  year." 


IHE    MEHCANTILE    AXGE1.  283 

"  We  can  get  along  very  well  on  that  sum." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  and  live  in  some  ten  footer  in  a  dark 
alley." 

"  We  intend  to  live  out  of  town,  in  a  nice  little  cottage." 

"  Y-e-s  !  a  nice  little  cottage.!  "  drawled  Sophia,  in  deris- 
ion. "  O  sis,  I  will  show  you  how  to  live  when  I  am  mar- 
ried. None  of  your  nice  little  cottages  for  me.  But  I 
wonder  when  the  new  partner  is  coming." 

"  Papa  told  me  this  morning  that  he  had  deferred  the  ar- 
rangement till  next  spring,  and  that  the  gentleman  would 
attend  to  his  business  at  the  south  as  heretofore." 

"  How  provoking  !  I  have  been  reserving  my  affections 
on  purpose  for  him.  I  mean  to  make  a  conquest  of  him  in 
just  one  month." 

"  How  foolish  you  talk,  Sophy  !  One  would  think  you 
had  entirely  forgotten  your  maidenly  delicacy." 

"  Pooh !  I'm  jesting  ;  it's  between  us  ;  "  and  Sophia  re- 
lapsed into  a  revery,  which,  we  are  almost  sure,  related 
to  the  aforesaid  new  partner,  who  was  not  only  a  nice  young 
man,  but  was  to  put  thirty  thousand  dollars  into  the  concern 
•when  he  became  a  partner. 

The  winter  passed  away,  and  the  spring  came.  Frederic 
and  Mary  were  to  be  married  in  a  few  days.  Mr.  Danvers, 
to  the  infinite  chagrin  of  Sophia,  had  readily  consented  to 
the  match.  The  proud  sister —  though  in  the  natural  good- 
ness of  her  heart  she  would  not  have  had  Mary's  affections 
blasted  —  would  fain  have  had  a  little  opposition,  to  save 
appearances. 

The  bridal  day  came,  and  after  the  ceremony  had  been 
performed,  the  happy  parties  started  f<}r  their  new  residence 


284  THE    MERCANTILE    ANGEL. 

in  the  suburbs.  Sophia,  who  had  acted  as  bridesmaid,  was 
to  accompany  them. 

The  carriage  wound  through  an  elm-shaded  road,  and 
suddenly  brought  to  the  view  of  the  delighted  party  a  splen- 
did country  residence. 

"  That  is  the  cottage,"  exclaimed  the  bride. 

"  That  a  cottage  !  Why,  Mary,  it  is  a  palace  !  "  replied 
Sophia,  in  utter  astonishment ;  for  she  had  never  taken, 
interest  enough  in  her  sister's  affairs  to  visit  her  proposed 
residence. 

The  carriage  stopped  before  the  door,  which  was  half 
hidden  behind  a  vine-laced  portico,  and  the  party  alighted. 

The  place  was  a  perfect  paradise,  and  many  were  the  en- 
comiums lavished  upon  it  by  the  bewildered  Sophia. 

"  You  cannot  think  how  surprised  I  was  when  I  first  be- 
held it,"  said  Mary,  when  she  and  Sophia  were  alone.  "  It 
seemed  more  like  a  dream  of  fairyland  than  a  reality.  But 
Frederic  is  so  very  odd  about  these  things." 

"  I  should  think  that  he  was  !  Why,  sis,  it  will  certainly 
ruin  him,  a  poor  clerk  on  a  thousand  dollars  salary." 

"  Well,  he  knows  best;  he  says  the  rent  is  nothing." 

"  Nothing,  indeed ;  but  it  will  eat  up  his  poor  pittance." 

"  Well,  I  gave  him  a  lesson  on  extravagance  ;  but  he  only 
laughed  in  my  face,  and  said  he  knew  what  he  was  about." 

"  But  here  are  Frederic  and  father ;  I  am  sure  papa  has 
been  scolding  him  for  his  recklessness." 

"  He  does  not  look  as  though  the  scolding  had  produced  a 
very  powerful  effect,"  said  Mary,  as  she  saw  her  husband's 
smiling  countenance. 

"  What  a  beautiful  house  ! "  exclaimed  Sophia,  as  Fred- 
eric Harlowe  joined  the  group. 


THE    MEBCANTIUE   ANGEl.  285 

"  A  fitting  nest  for  my  pretty  bird,"  replied  the  husband, 
gayly,  as  he  chucked  his  blushing  wife  under  the  chin. 

"  I  should  think  your  thousand  dollars  a  year  would  have 
to  suffer  some,"  said  Sophia,  bluntly. 

"  O,  your  father  has  been  so  very  good  as  to  elevate  me  a 
peg,  so  that  I  can  well  afford  to  incur  the  expense." 

"  Yes,  my  child,"  interposed  Mr.  Danvers  ;  "  you  know  I 
said  something  to  you  about  entertaining  angels  unawares. 
Sophy,  Mr.  Frederic  Harlowe  is  the  new  partner." 

"  What  an  abominable  cheat,  papa !  I'll  warrant  you 
told  Mary  of  it  in  the  beginning,"  said  Sophia,  with 
abundant  good  humor. 

"  Nay,  she  knew  nothing  of  it  till  a  few  days  before  her 
marriage.  This  was  all  Mr.  Harlowe's  whim  ;  he  must  ex- 
plain'it  for  himself." 

Mr.  Harlowe  did  attempt  to  explain  his  motive  in  enter- 
ing the  family  incog.,  but  it  was  a  lame  explanation.  Prob- 
ably the  reader,  who  readily  penetrates  the  secret  thoughts 
of  the  hero  of  the  story,  has  already  divined  his  motive. 
He  wanted  a  wife,  and  had  the  sense  to  seek  for  genuine 
goodness  in  preference  to  name  and  position  in  society.  He 
won  the  daughter  of  a  merchant  prince  as  a  simple  clerk ; 
there  was  no  doubt  that  she  loved  him. 

Mary  was  very  much  surprised,  and  perhaps  not  a  little 
chagrined,  to  find  the  romance  of  marrying  a  clerk  so  sud- 
denly disappear ;  but  in  the  wealth  of  a  mutual  love  they 
were  richer  than  in  the  smiles  of  fickle  fortune,  which  had 
blessed  thsm  with  an  abundance  of  the  good  things  of  this 
life. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A   CONCEITED  MAN; 

BEING    THE    SUBSTANCE    OF     WHAT    SOME    YOUNG    MEN 
THINK,    BUT    NEVER    SAY. 

CHAPTER    T. 

WHEN  I  was  a  boy,  the  schoolmaster  succeeded  in  im- 
pressing upon  my  mind  the  truth  of  that  common  saying  — 
"  If  a  man  thinks  nothing  of  himself,  no  one  will  think  any 
thing  of  him."  The  pedagogue  believed  it  himself,  and  his 
daily  deportment  was  based  upon  it.  Whether  I  learned 
any  thing  else  of  him  I  cannot  now  say ;  but  I  am  sure  I 
learned  to  set  a  high  value  upon  myself. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  I  found  myself  in  the  service  of 
an  eminent  merchant  of  Boston,  in  the  capacity  of  assistant 
bookkeeper,  on  the  paltry  salary  of  four  hundred  dollars  a 
year.  I  was  worth  more  —  I  was  sure  of  it.  But  perhaps 
my  employer  had  not  yet  come  to  a  knowledge  of  the  treasure 
he  possessed  in  me,  and  I  wisely  determined  to  wait  till  I 
had  a  better  opportunity  to  distinguish  myself. 

Certainly  I  took  a  great  deal  of  pride  in  discharging  the 
duties  of  my  position.  I  labored  assiduously  to  please  both 
the  merchant  and  the  head  bookkeeper,  and  they  seemed  to 
regard  me  with  satisfaction ;  but  I  resolved  to  make  myself  so 
necessary  that  the  business  could  not  be  carried  on  without  me, 

(2W3) 


CONFESSIONS    OP   A    CONCEITED    MAN  287 

Whether  my  imagination  was  more  lively  than  my  reason, 
or  not,  I  do  not  know  ;  but  certainly,  at  the  end  of  six  months 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  Mr.  Bancroft  could  not  possibly 
continue  in  business  a  single  month  without  me.  As  to  my 
superior,  he  would  be  perfectly  powerless  if  I  should  leave. 
In  fact,  I  "conceited  "  that  I  was  in  reality  the  bookkeeper  of 
the  concern,  though  he  received  the  salary  and  did  all  the 
dictating. 

I  was  an  ambitious  young  man.  I  built  a  great  many 
ery  pretty  castles  in  the  air  ;  among  them  the  idea 'of  marry- 
ng  my  employer's  beautiful  daughter  was  not  the  least 
attractive.  She  was  a  splendid  girl  —  people  called  her  the 
belle  of  Boston  —  and  what  to  me  was  just  as  insinuating 
she  was  an  only  child,  and  consequently  the  heiress  of  all 
Mr.  Bancroft's  reputed  wealth. 

I  never  was  one  of  that  sort  who  wistfully  dream  over  fine 
things,  without  making  an  attempt  to  attain  them.  That 
stale  old  maxim  to  the  effect  that  "  faint  heart  ne'er  won  fair 
lady,"  was  uppermost  in  my  mind.  I  had  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that_  Rosabel  Bancroft  should  have  the  supreme 
felicity  of  becoming  my  household  deity. 

But  the  way  was  full  of  difficulties.  I  had  never  seen  the 
peerless  maiden,  save  on  occasions  when  I  had  called  at  the 
house  in  the  capacity  of  an  errand  boy  —  for  the  key  of  the 
safe,  to  get  Mr.  Bancroft  to  sign  a  check,  or  something  of 
that  sort.  She  was  a  proud  beauty,  and  had  never  even 
taken  the  pains  to  look  at  me.  "  Ah,  my  fine  lady,"  thought 
I,  "  when  We  are  married,  I  will  teach  you  what  is  what ! ' 

Certainly  I  would  !  And  as  for  marrying  her,  why,  that  was 
a  settled  fact  in  my  mind  —  I  had  resolved  to  do  the  deed. 

1  flattered  myself  that  I  was  a  decidedly  good-looking  fel- 


288  CONFESSIONS    OF    A    CONCEITED    MAN. 

low,  and  a  great  many  young  men  cherish  this  idea  in  these 
progressive  times.  My  looking  glass  had  told  me  I  was 
handsome,  and  there  was  no  going  behind  its  impressive 
declaration.  But  I  was  aware  that  my  beauty  needed  a 
little  cultivation,  and  accordingly  I  applied  to  Bogle  for 
some  of  the  "  compounds,"  and  in  a  few  weeks,  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  contemplating  the  addition  of  a  downy 
mustache  upon  my  well-turned  upper  lip.  I  took  a  great 
deal  of  pains  with  this  beautifier  of  my  physiognomy,  and 
felt  perfectly  sure  that  the  charming  Rosabel  would  be  unable 
to  resist  my  killing  attractions. 

There  was  to  be  a  grand  ball  at  Union  Hall,  and  I  heard 
that  my  divinity  was  to  form  one  of  the  revellers.  I  will 
not  trouble  the  reader  with  a  relation  of  the  difficulties  that 
beset  me  in  procuring  a  ticket  —  for  the  affair  was  intended 
solely  for  the  "  upper  ten ;  "  but  I  got  one,  though  it  cost  me 
in  the  neighborhood  of  twenty-five  dollars,  to  say  nothing  of 
twenty-five  more  expended  in  a  fancy  vest,  cravat,  and  other 
little  amiabilities. 

When  I  was  dressed  for  the  occasion,  the  effect  was  per- 
fectly stunning.  Rosabel  was  certainly  a  goner  ! 

My  entree  into  the  drawing  room  seemed  to  create  a  pro- 
found sensation.  All  the  gentlemen  stared  at  me,  and  I  felt 
assured  of  being  the  lion  of  the  evening.  It  was  plain  that 
my  "  personal  "  had  created  a  furor  among  the  aristocratic 
dandies ;  but  I  tried  to  treat  them  all  with  respect  and  po- 
liteness. It  is  true  I  saw  some  of  them  turn  up  their  noses 
at  me  ;  and  all  evinced  a  disposition  to  avoid  me.  But  I 
attributed  all  these  unmannerly  symptoms  to  the  envy  which 
my  superior  personal  attractions  had  roused  in  their  narrow 
minds.  I  did  not  resent  their  ill  nature  —  I  could  afford  to 
be  magnanimous. 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   CONCEITED   MAN.  289* 

I  walked  like  a  king  through  the  sumptuous  apartments ; 
indeed,  I  always  prided  myself  on  my  gait.  More  than  once, 
when  I  have  been  leisurely  promenading  Washington  Streett 
I  have  felt  sure  that  all  the  ladies  had  singled  me  out  foi 
especial  admiration. 

There  was  something  magnificent  about  my  style  of  walk- 
ing, and  I  did  not  blame  the  dear  creatures  for  sighing  when 
I  passed  them.  It  was  a  great  pity  that,  in  the  illiberality 
of  our  laws,  only  one  lady  could  ever  have  the  satisfaction  of 
calling  me  her  husband.  I  am  naturally  of  a  sympathetic 
temperament,  and  I  assure  the  reader  that  it  deeply  grieved 
me  to  think  of  the  number  of  fair,  promising  ladies  who 
would  be  disappointed  in  winning  my  affections.  I  could 
not  love  them  all,  and  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  pitied 
those  who  were  doomed  to  be  disappointed. 

Rosabel  Bancroft  was  destined  to  be  my  wife.  I  had 
deliberately  made^  up  my  mind,  and  though  I  thought,  in 
consideration  of  my  condescension  in  choosing  her  from  tho 
thousands  who  would  have  rejoiced  to  win  me,  she  ought  to 
meet  me  half  way.  But  I  was  not  over  nice,  and  in  deference 
to  the  fashions  of  the  times,  I  mentally  consented  to  do  all 
the  courting  myself. 

I  succeeded  in  getting  an  introduction  to  her,  and  she 
consented  to  dance  with  me.  I  was  not  much  elated ;  I  re- 
garded my  progress  as  a  matter  of  course.  During  the 
quadrille,  I  did  the  agreeable  to  my  own  satisfaction,  and 
though  the  impression  was  not  as  marked  and  decided  as  I 
had  expected,  I  was  assured  that  every  thing  was  going  on 
well. 

"  Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time,"  said  somebody,  I 
don't  remember  whether  it  was  Plato  or  Diogenes.  When 
25  • 


290  CONFESSIONS    OF    A    CONCEITED    MAN. 

the  dance  was  ended,  and  I  had  conducted  her  to  the  drawing 
room,  I  made  bold  to  express  my  admiration  of  her  beauty 
and  grace.  She  blushed,  smiled,  and  looked  confused. 
Poor  thing  !  how  could  she  help  it  ? 

Just  then  a  dandy  spoke  a  word  to  her,  and  then  retreated. 
I  was  not  to  be  balked,  and  with  all  the  eloquence  I  pos- 
sessed —  and  I  would  just  hint  that  Demosthenes,  Cicero, 
or  Daniel  Webster  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  me  in  making 
a  speech  —  I  popped  the  question  ! 

It  was  handsomely  done,  and  Rosabel  was  taken  all  aback. 
I  expected  all  this  —  I  knew  all  about  making  love  —  Ovid 
couldn't  tell  me  any  thing  about  it.  Girls,  at  this  moment- 
ous crisis,  do  not  always  mean  half  they  say  ;  and  I  was 
prepared  to  hear  her  declare  it  was  rather  sudden,  that  she 
must  ask  papa  about  it,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

But  my  ardent  confession  seemed  to  throw  her  into  a  per- 
spiration —  if  I  may  so  unpoetically  express  the  confusion 
which  my  declaration  produced. 

"  You  impudent  puppy  ! "  exclaimed  she,  her  pretty  cheek 
red  with  anger  ;  "  so  you  are  one  of  my  father's  clerks,  and 
have  the  presumption  to  ask  me  to  dance  with  you,  and  then 
to  offer  me  such  an  indignity !  Leave  my  presence,  sir,  this 
instant,  or  I  will  ask  my  friends  to  kick  you  away  !  " 

Whew !  I  did  feel  sheepish  for  a  moment ;  but  then,  poor 
thing,  she  did  not  know  her  own  mind.  Some  of  those 
envious  noodles  had  been  exciting  her  prejudices  against  me. 
That  dandy  had  told  her  I  was  her  father's  clerk,  before  I 
had  had  an  opportunity  to  weave  my  spell  upon  her. 

Comforting  myself  with  the  assurance  that  there  Avere 
thousands  of  heiresses  who  were  more  discriminating  than 
she,  I  whistled  an  air,  and  ambled  away  from  her.  If  there 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    CONCEITED    MAN.  291 

is  any  person  on  the  face  of  the  earth  whom  I  pity  more 
than  another,  it  is  he  or  she  who  wilfully  throws  away  a  good 
opportunity. 

Poor  Rosabel !  I  pitied  her  !  I  believe  I  was  unselfish 
enough  to  deplore  her  misfortune  more  acutely  than  I  did 
my  own.  I  had  lost  nothing  that  might  not  be  regained ; 
she  had  cast  away  one  of  the  most  brilliant  opportunities  that 
ever  dawned  upon  the  destiny  of  a  maiden. 

I  have  the  credit,  among  those  who  know  me  best,  of  pos- 
sessing firmness  in  a  very  remarkable  degree  ;  and  it  was 
melancholy  to  think  she  had  cast  me  off  forever,  for,  I  am 
sure,  if  she  had  fallen  upon  her  knees,  and  begged  and  plead- 
ed, I  should  have  been  as  firm  as  a  rock.  Those  insulting, 
unlady-iike  words,  had  "  fixed  her  flint "  —  to  use  a  rather 
homely  phrase,  which  I  believe  did  not  originate  either  with 
.Addison  or  Macaulay. 

I  did  not  dance  any  more  that  evening.  I  found  that  I 
had  fallen  among  fools,  who  could  not  appreciate  me.  And 
strange  as  it  may  seem  to  the  unphilosophical  reader,  the  fact 
did  not  in  the  least  disturb  my  natural  equanimity.  Why 
should  it  ?  Did  not  Socrates  experience  the  same  coldness  at 
the  hands  of  the  fickle  Athenians,  who  put  him  to  death  by 
mixing  poison  with  his  "  sherry  cobbler  "  ?  Why  should  I 
expect  a  better  fate  than  others  whose  misfortune  it  is  to  be 
superior  to  the  masses  around  them  ? 

I  left  the  hall  regretting  only  that  the  eighth  part  of  my 
year's  salary  had  been  wasted  in  the  adventure. 

When  I  went  to  the  counting  room  next  morning,  Mr. 
Bancroft  summoned  me  to  his  private  office. 

"  You  are  a  fool,  young  man  !  "  said  he,  and  his  -face  was 
flushed  with  anger. 


292  CONFESSIONS    OF   A   CONCEITED    MAN. 

0  the  ingratitude  of  the  world !     This  was  a  pretty  return 
for  the  distinguished  honor  I  had  intended  for  his  daughter, 
and  which  only  her  own  wilfulness  had  prevented  her  from 
receiving  at  my  hands. 

"  If  you  ever  presume  to  speak  to  my  daughter  again, 
under  "any  circumstances,  I  will  immediately  discharge  you 
from  my  service,"  continued  he,  with  the  utmost  coolness. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  thought  I  —  and  I  beg  the  reader  will  not 
suppose  I  uttered  this  unseemly  expression — "  you  won't 
do  any  thing  of  the  kind.  You  know  your  own  interest  too 
well." 

Discharge  me  !  I  should  have  liked  to  see  him  do  it.  I 
"believe  I  should  actually  have  gone,  if  he  had  said  the  word, 
and  left  him.  to  take  care  of  his  business  as  best  he  might ! 
If  he  had  got  me  mad,  I  should  just  as  lief  seen  him  fail  as 
not  —  it  is  my  temperament.  To  a  friend,  I  am  a  friend  ; 
to  a  foe,  a  foe  of  the  most  determined  sort. 

But  he  knew  better  than  to  provoke  me  too  far.  Bancroft 
was  a  shrewd  man.  He  knew  just  how  far  I  would  have 
permitted  him  to  go,  in  deference  to  the  dignity  of  his  po- 
sition, and  he  did  not  exceed  that  limit.  It  was  a  lucky  thing 
for  him  that  he  did  not.  Disaster,  mercantile  ruin,  would 
have  been  the  inevitable  consequence  of  such  an  impru- 
dent act ! 

1  regret  that  my  space   does  not  permit  me  to   give  the 
reader  the  details  of  my  exploits  in,  the  arena  of  Cupid  for 
the  succeeding  six  months.     They  were  rich  and  varied  ;  but 
I   am  happy  to  console  my  friends  and  admirers  with  the 
assurance  that  I  am  at  present  engaged  in  writing  out  the 
history  of  the  whole  period,  which  in  due   time  will  appear, 
complete  in  seven  volumes,  with  portraits  and  illustrations. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  CONCEITED  MAN.        293 

From  the  events  of  this  campaign  I  deduce  the  melancholy 
conclusion  that  the  fair  sex  are  sadly  wanting  in  good  taste 
and' nice  discrimination.  The  fact  that  I  am  still  a  bachelor 
is  a  sad  commentary  on  this  truth.  The  ladies  "  are  not 
what  they  are  cracked  up  to  be  "  — to  use  a  rather  inelegant 
expression,  which  I  think  was  original  with  Hogg,  the  poet. 

But  disappointed  of  my  matrimonial  hopes,  I  determined  to 
make  commerce  the  study  of  my  life.  I  had  about  made  up 
my  mind  to  offer  my  time  and  talents  to  Bancroft  —  in  short, 
to  offer  to  become  •  his  partner  in  business.  I  never  was 
much  in  favor  of  these  complications  of  mercantile  affairs, 
and  to  become  a  partner  of  his  might  involve  me  in  some 
future  sacrifices,  which  it  might  not  be  pleasant  to  make. 

I  thought  it  best,  on  the  whole,  to  retain  my  present  situ- 
ation. But  the  salary  was  too  small.  I  must  wait  upon 
Bancroft,  and  consent  to  remain  in  his  service,  if  he  would 
add  a  hundred  dollars  to  my  pay.  Of  course  he  could  not 
be  so  imprudent  as  to  run  the  risk  of  failure  and  utter  ruin 
for  so  trifling  a  matter  as  this. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Bancroft,"  said  I,  in  my  blandest 
tones,  —  for  even  a  highway  robber  is  polite  nowadays  when 
he  blows  a  man's  brains  out  —  "but  I  have  taken  the  liberty 
to  wait  upon  you  for  the  purpose  of  asking  you  to  advance 
my  salary  from  four  to  five  hundred  dollars." 

"  Go  to  the  devil !  "  said  he,  rudely. 

It  is  astonishing  how  some  folks  will  even  kick  an  angel 
out  of  their  presence.  Poor  Bancroft !  he  "  stood  in  his 
own  light,"  —  to  borrow  from  Carlyle  or  Mephistophiles,  I 
forget  which. 

"You  are  dear  help  at  two  hundred  a  year;   I  don't  wan*, 
you  any  longer  at  any  price,"  continued  Bancroft. 
25* 


294  CONFESSIONS    OF    A    CONCEITED    MAN. 

"  There's  stupidity  for  you  ! "  thought  I. 

My  blood  was  up,  and  I  determined  to  leave  him,  let  the 
consequences  be  what  they  might. 

I  did  leave  him,  assured  that  the  mercantile  world  would 
be  startled  to  its  centre  by  a  crash,  in  a  very  short  time. 
The  concern  has  not  broke  down  yet,  but  there  is  a  moral 
certainty  that  it  must  soon  "  go  by  the  board,"  —  to  quote 
from  Captain  Cook,  or  Sir  John  Franklin,  it  is  not  very  ma- 
terial which. 

I  had  not  been  out  of  business  a  week  before  I  discovered 
that  literature  was  the  proper  sphere  for  me.  I  intend  to 
bring  about  a  revolution  in  the  world  of  letters,  by  introdu- 
cing an  entirely  new  style  of  composition,  adapted  both  to 
prose  and  poetry.  I  have  several  works  under  way,  in- 
cluding a  complete  History  of  the  Musquito  Kingdom, 
Annals  of  Hull,  and  a  poem  in  two  hundred  and  seventy- 
six  cantos,  on  the  "Want  of  Appreciation  and  Correct  Taste 
in  the  Female  Sex,  —  all  of  which  will  appear  as  soon  aa 
written  and  published. 


THE  BACHELOR  BEAU. 

CHAPTER    I. 

"  I  CAN  no  longer  struggle  against  the  current  of  misfor- 
tune," exclaimed  Mr.  Whiting,  a  small  merchant,  who  had 
by  the  pressure  of  hard  times  become  somewhat  involved; 
"  I  am  ruined  !  " 

"  Nay,  my  husband,  do  not  be  distressed.  Worse  calami- 
ties than  this  might  happen,  and  we  will  make  the  best 
of  it." 

"  But,  wife,  I  must  fail ;  I  cannot  sustain  myself  another 
day." 

"  You  have  done  all  you  can  to  avert  the  misfortune,  and 
if  it  must  come,  let  us  not  repine,  but  bear  it  like  Christians." 

"  I  will  try  to  keep  calm  ;  but  it  seems  hard,  after  weath- 
ering the  worst  of  the  storm,  to  be  wrecked  in  sight  of  the 
land." 

"  Perhaps  your  creditors  will  give  you  more  time,"  sug- 
gested Mrs.  Whiting. 

"  I  cannot  hope  it ;  the  note  which  comes  due  to-morrow, 
and  which  I  am  utterly  unable  to  pay,  is  in  the  hands  of  my 
bitterest  enemy." 

"  He  will  not  distress  you." 

"  I  know  him  well.     He  is  a  villain  !  " 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  " 

(295) 


296  THE    BACHELOR    BEAU. 

"  Backer." 

"  God  help  us,  if  lie  is  your  creditor  !  " 

"  As  near  as  I  can  learn,  he  bought  the  note  on  purpose  t« 
perplex  me,  and  perhaps  to  obtain  his  revenge." 

"  Why  is  he  so  bitter  against  you  ?  " 

"  Because  I  exposed  a  swindling  operation,  in  which  he 
was  engaged." 

"  How  much  is  the  note,  father  ?  "  asked  a  beautiful, 
hazel-eyed  girl,  who  had  not  before  spoken,  but  who  had 
been  listening  with  intense  interest  to  the  conversation  be- 
tween her  father  and  mother. 

"  Three  thousand  dollars,  Sarah,"  replied  Mr.  "Whiting, 
fixing  a  glance  of  anxiety  upon  the  fair  girl. 

"  Can't  you  borrow  it,  father  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  my  child,  my  credit  is  very  much  impaired.  My 
notes  have  been  too  thick  in  State  Street  for  me  to  borrow 
without  paying  exorbitant  interest ;  and  that,  I  think,  would 
wrong  my  creditors  in  case  any  thing  should  happen." 

"  It  is  not  so  very  dreadful  to  (fail,  is  it,  father  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  ruinous  to  me,  my  child.  If  I  could  pay 
this  note  to-morrow,  I  could  get  along  very  well.  I  should 
not  have  been  embarrassed,  had  it  not  been  for  the  failure 
of  Jones.  But  I  suppose  it  must  be,  and  we  must  content 
ourselves  to  live  a  little  more  closely  than  we  have  been 
accustomed  to  do." 

Sarah  asked  no  more  questions,  and  though  the  conversa- 
tion was  continued  by  her  father  and  mother,  she  seemed  to 
pay  no  attention  to  it.  She  appeared  to  be  musing  deeply 
over  something. 

As  the  evening  advanced,  John  Barnet,  a  clerk,  who  had 
for  some  months  been  attentive  to  Sarah,  and  who,  report 


THE    BACHELOR   BEATT.  297 

said,  was  a  favored  suitor,  made  his  accustomed  evening 
visit.  Every  body  said  that  John  Barnet  was  a  nice  young 
man,  and  every  way  worthy  of  so  beautiful  and  amiable  a 
wife  as  Sarah  Whiting  would  undoubtedly  make  him. 

If  there  is  any  thing  in  smiles  and  gentle  words,  th'e  affec- 
tion of  the  young  clerk  was  warmly  reciprocated  by  Sarah. 
They  were  not  engaged,  however,  though  he  called  at  Mr. 
Whiting's  house  from  four  to  seven  evenings  in  a  week. 

Mr.  Whiting  and  his  wife  retired  at  an  early  hour  in  the 
evening,  leaving  the  lovers  "  to  have  it  out." 

As  usual,  John  Barnet  begged  her  to  make  him  happy  by 
promising  to  be  his  forever.  To  his  utter  surprise  and  con- 
sternation, she  told  him  she  could  never  be  his  wife,  and  en- 
treated him  to  think  no  more  about  her.  Of  course,  the 
lover  pressed  her  for  an  explanation  of  this  sudden  and  re- 
markable change  in  her  manner  towards  him.  But  she  could 
not  even  do  this,  and  John  took  his  leave,  feeling  that  ho 
had  not  another  friend  in  the  world. 


CHAPTER    II. 

SARAH  WHITING  had  another  suitor  in  the  person  of  a 
wealthy  and  eccentric  old  bachelor,  who,  after  withstanding 
the  assaults  of  thousands  of  bright  eyes  and  bewitching 
smiles,  had  laid  his  heart  at  the  feet  of  our  beautiful  heroine. 
We  don't  blame  the  old  fellow  for  falling  in  love  with  her, 
any  more  than  we  blame  Sarah  for  laughing  at  him  when  he 
threw  himself  at  her  feet  and  "  popped  the  question." 

Mr.  Landyke  Somerset  was  only  about  forty,  so  that,  if 
Sarah  had  been  less  cruel,  it  would  not  have  been  exactly 


298  THE    BACHELOR   BEA.TT. 

"  May  and  December,"  but  about  June  and  November.  Ho 
loved  her  with  all  the  fervor  which  the  march  of  time  had 
left  in  his  heart,  and  was  actually  disconsolate  when  she 
told  him  "  no." 

Mr.  Vandyke  Somerset  was  not  an  ill-looking  man,  though 
he  was  an  old  bachelor.  True,  his  hair  was  not  as  black 
and  glossy  as  it  had  been  twenty  years  before  ;  there  was  an 
occasional  iron-gray  hair,  which  looked  a  little  suspicious  ; 
yet,  when  he  began  to  make  his  court  to  the  divinity  of  his 
dreams,  even  these  suddenly  disappeared,  and  people  were 
malicious  enough  to  say  it  was  through  the  influence  of  a 
certain  compound  applied  by  the  barber.  True,  also,  there 
was  now  and  then  a  wrinkle  in  his  face,  which  some  young 
ladies  affect  to  dislike.  But  what  of  all  these  things  ?  Old 
age  is  honorable,  and  the  iron-gray  hairs  and  the  wrinkles 
did  not  in  the  least  mar  the  kindly  expression  of  his  phiz. 

He  was  a  very  clever  fellow,  and  though  the  merry  little 
Sarah  Whiting  could  not  help  laughing  when  he  "  popped 
the  question "  to  her,  she  would  very  willingly  have  had 
just  such  an  uncle,  or  something  of  that  sort.  In  short,  she 
liked  him,  but  she  didn't  love  him. 

Mr.  Landyke  Somerset  was  a  firm  believer  in  the  ancient 
verity,  that  "  faint  heart  ne'er  won  fair  lady,"  and  he  deter- 
mined not  to  faint  or  give  up  the  chase  till  he  had  bagged 
the  game,  or  had  seen  her  the  wife  of  another.  Consequent- 
ly he  held  out  all  the  inducements  in  his  power  to  engage 
her  heart  in  his  favor. 

He  was  not  what  young  ladies  call  an  "  old  fool,"  for  ho 
had  sense  enough  to  feel  that  he  should  never  be  able  to 
gain  the  victory  on  the  strength  of  his  physical  attributes  — 
his  personal  beauty.  But  lie  was  an  amiable  man  at  heart, 


THE    BACHEtOB   BEAU.  299 

and  trusted  solely  to  the  influence  of  his  moral  and  mental 
qualities  for  success.  They  had  thus  far  failed  him,  though 
he  still  persevered. 

Mr.  Whiting,  readily  understanding  what  these  attentions 
meant,  did  all  in  his  power  to  favor  his  suit ;  for  he  was  an 
old-fashioned  man,  and  placed  more  confidence  in  the  power 
of  a  good  heart  and  plenty  of  money  to  make  his  daughter 
happy,  than  he  did  in  the  more  common  attributes  of  youth 
and  good  looks,  even  though  the  possessor  of  the  first-named 
commodities  had  passed  the  meridian  of  life. 

But  Sarah  had  a  mind  of  her  own  in  these  matters,  and 
though  she  appreciated  her  kind  father's  motives,  she  could 
not  think  of  throwing  herself  away  on  a  man  of  forty,  even 
if  he  was  an  angel. 

It  was  only  the  afternoon  of  the  day  preceding  the  conver- 
sation we  have  recorded,  that  Mr.  Somerset  had  paid  her  a 
visit,  and  renewed  his  protestations  of  love  to  her.  She  had 
told  him  for  the  twentieth  time,  "  no." 

When  she  heard  her  father  relate  the  particulars  of  his 
embarrassment,  the  image  of  Mr.  Somerset  had  involuntarily 
presented  itself  to  her  mind.  He  was  abundantly  able  to 
assist  them  in  this  emergency,  and  for  the  love  he  bore  her 
perhaps  he  would. 

But,  then,  if  she  applied  to  him,  and  he  afforded  the  neces- 
sary aid,  she  would  be  under  an  obligation  to  him,  which 
she  might  find  it  very  inconvenient  to  discharge. 

Ruin  stared  her  father  in  the  face.  He  had  said  it  was 
ruin,  and  she  was  sure  it  was.  What  right  had  she  to  be 
selfish  or  over  nice,  when,  perhaps,  she  had  it  in  her  power 
to  avert  the  dreadful  calamity  ?  Her  father  was  all  in  all  to 
her ;  and  though  some  girls  are  s6  sentimental  as  to  sacrifice 


300  THE    BACHELOR   BEATI. 

fatter,  mother,  home,  friends,  for  a  lover,  she  would  sacrifice 
a  dozen  lovers  for  her  father  alone,  to  say  nothing  of  her 
mother,  who  was  at  least  worth  two  dozen  more. 

Let  not  the  reader  suppose  the  pretty  Sarah  did  not  love 
him  upon  whom  she  had  smiled  —  she  did  ;  but  her  bump 
of  veneration  was  bigger  than  that  other  bump  on  the  back 
of  the  head. 

Her  resolution  was  formed,  and  about  eleven  o'clock  the 
next  day,  she  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  walked  up  to  the 
Revere  House,  where  Mr.  Somerset  boarded. 


CHAPTER    III. 

MR.  LANDYKE  SOMERSET  was  a  nabob,  and  retained  a 
private  parlor,  to  which  the  obsequious  servant  conducted 
Sarah  "Whiting. 

Of  course  the  bachelor  was  reasonably  astonished  at  this 
visit. 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Whiting,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you,"  ex- 
claimed he,  with  rapturous  enthusiasm. 

"  I  knew  you  would  be,  and  that's  the  reason  I  came," 
laughed  Sarah,  and  at  the  same  time  she  blushed  so  sweetly 
that  Mr.  Landyke  Somerset  had  almost  dissolved  in  a  rap- 
ture of  delight. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  JVliss  Whiting,  you  are  not  always  so  kind 
to  me  as  you  are  to-day." 

"  But  I  always  will  be  hereafter,"  and  Sarah  smiled 
though  her  heart  beat  like  the  boundings  of  a  race  horse." 

"  Ah,  you  are  so  good,  and  so  pretty,  too." 

"  I  will  save  you  the  trouble  of  all  these  useless  adula- 


THE   BACHELOR  BEAU.  301 

tions  by  saying  that  I  have  come  to  accept  your  oft-repeated 
proposal." 

"  Indeed  !  "  and  the  bachelor  was  taken  "  all  aback  ;  "  he 
could  hardly  believe  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses. 

"What,  sir!  Do  you  recede  from  your  offer?"  said 
Sarah,  laughing  with  all  her  might  — a  very  convenient 
cloak  for  young  ladies  sometimes. 

"  Capital  joke,  eh  ?  "  and  the  bachelor  laughed  too. 

"  No  joke,  sir ;  I  am  in  earnest." 

Sarah  looked  as  sober  as  the  matron  of  an  orphan 
asylum. 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  pretty  Sarah,  do  not  make  sport  of  me." 

"  I  will  give  you  my  promise  in  writing,  with  my  signa- 
ture, if  you  desire  it.** 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  mean  so  ?  "  said  the  doubtful 
Mr.  Somerset. 

"  Take  my  hand." 

The  bachelor  took  it,  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  began  to 
think  himself  the  happiest  fellow  in  the  world. 

"  I  am  yours,  Mr.  Somerset." 

"  Bless  you,  Sarah  ! " 

"  On  one  condition." 

"  Name  it." 

Sarah  recounted  the  story  of  her  father's  embarrassment. 

"  Fill  me  out  a  check  for  three  thousand  dollars,  and  I 
promise  to  become  your  wife  within  one  year." 

Mr.  Landyke  Somerset  mused.  He  appeared  to  be  in 
doubt.  He  was  a  high-souled  man,  and  the  idea  of  buying 
the  hand  of  his  wife  was  to  the  last  degree  repugnant  to  him. 

"  You  hesitate,  sir ;  I  know  you  do  not  love  me,"  said 
Sarah,  with  apparent  pique. 
26 


THE    BACHELOR    BEAU. 

"  On  my  soul,  I  do  !  I  agree  ;  here  is  the  check,"  replied 
Mr.  Somerset,  as  he  seated  himself  at  the  tahle  and  drew 
the  check. 

'*  Now  enclose  it  in  a  note  to  my  father,  saying  you  learned 
his  trouble  from  a  mutual  friend,  and  then  beg  the  privilege 
of  loaning  him  the  amount  of  the  check." 

"  And  you  sacrifice  yourself  to  your  father,  my  fair  Sa- 
rah !  "  said  the  bachelor,  as  he  sealed  the  note. 

"  I  do." 

"  You  are  an  angel !  " 

"  Nay,  I  must  go  now." 

The  check  did  the  business,  and  Mr.  Whiting  was  as  hap- 
py as  ever  he  was  in  his  life.  Bacher  could  not  sleep  that 
night  because  he  had  been  foiled  in  his  revenge. 

In  the  evening  Mr.  Somerset  called  at  the  house  to  see 
his  future  bride.  She  treated  him  kindly,  and  permitted  him 
to  sit  by  her  side,  hold  her  work  basket,  and  pick  up  her 
thimble  when  she  dropped  it  —  which  was  glory  enough  for 
an  evening,  to  one  as  moderate  in  his  wishes  as  the  bachelor 
beau  of  our  heroine. 

But  about  eight  o'clock,  to  Sarah's  utter  consternation, 
John  Barnet  paid  his  usual  visit.  The  poor  clerk  was  sadly 
distressed,  as  well  he  might  be,  and  had  called  to  desire  an 
explanation  of  the  cool  manner  in  which  he  had  been  dis- 
missed. 

The  presence  of  Mr.  Somerset  was  all  the  explanation  he 
desired.  He  was  uneasy  ;  he  could  not  join  in  the  conver- 
sation, and  aware  that  he.  was  making  himself  disagreeable 
to  the  party,  he  determined  to  take  his  leave ;  but  how  could 
he  leave  her  ? 

He  knew  Mr.  Somerset  to  be  one  of  the  best  men  in  the 


THE    BACHELOR   BEAU.  303 

world,  and  lie  resolved  to  request  an  interview  with  him  on 
the  spot. 

The  worthy  bachelor  kindly  condescended  to  walk  down 
the  street  a  short  distance  with  him,  and  John  Barnet  told 
him  the  whole  story  ;  how  he  loved  Sarah,  and  how  he  had 
eveiy  reason  to  believe  that  Sarah  loved  him.  He  was  sure 
that  some  unfair  advantage  had  been  taken,  and  he  wanted 
the  matter  explained. 

"  Come  back  to  the  house,  young  man,  and  I  will  give 
you  all  the  satisfaction  you  desire." 

John  consented. 

A  few  minutes  sufficed  to  explain  to  Mr.  Whiting  and  the 
discarded  lover  the  nature  of  the  sacrifice  which  the  devoted 
Sarah  had  made  for  her  father's  sake. 

"  Bless  you,  my  child  !  "  exclaimed  the  merchant,  his 
eyes  filling  with  tears  of  love,  as  he  tenderly  embraced  his 
noble-hearted  daughter. 

"  You  understand  it  now,  don't  you,  Mr.  Barnet  ?  "  said 
the  bachelor,  with  a  good-natured  smile. 

"  I  do,  indeed,"  replied  John,  sorrowfully  ;  "  she  is  a  no- 
ble girl,  and  I  shall  never  cease  to  love  her,  though  she 
can  never  be  mine." 

Sarah  cast  a  sad  glance  at  him,  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  She  never  knew  till  that  moment  how  much  she 
loved  the  poor  clerk.  But  it  was  all  over  now  —  the  bright 
dreams  of  love  had  passed  away,  and  she  could  never  be 
happy  again. 

"  What,  Sarah  !  do  you  recede  from  your  promise  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Somerset. 

"Nay,  I  do  not.  Farewell,  John!  farewell  forever!" 
and  the  poor  girl  sobbed  convulsively. 


304  THE    BACHELOR    BEAU. 

"  Farewell,  Sarah  !  "  and  the  clerk  seized  his  hat  and 
rushed  towards  the  door. 

*'  Hallo  !  stop,  young  man  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Somerset ; 
"  don't  go  off  mad.  Give  me  your  hand." 

The  bachelor. took  the  clerk's  hand. 

"  You  are  a  good  fellow  ;  I  honor  you.  Your  hand,  Sa- 
rah," and  Mr.  Somerset  took  the  little  white  hand  of  the 
weeping  maiden,  and  placed  it  in  that  of  John  Barnet. 
"  Be  happy  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  "  asked  Sarah,  bewildered  at 
the  actions  of  the  bachelor. 

"  Mean  ?     You  love  him,  don't  you  ?  " 

«  With  all  my  soul !  " 

"  And  you  do  not  love  me  ?  " 

Sarah  began  to  understand. 

"  I  like  you." 

"  You  are  his  ;  be  happy  !  You  did  not  for  a  moment 
suppose  I  could  be  so  mean  as  to  take  advantage  of  such  a 
noble  act  of  self-sacrifice  as  you  performed  to-day  ?  No  !  I 
love  you,  but  I  will  not  make  you  miserable." 

Poor  Sarah !  How  happy  she  was,  and  how  she  pitied 
poor  Mr.  Somerset,  who  loved  her  so  much  !  She  felt  that, 
if  she  had  never  seen  John  Barnet,  she  would  have  been 
glad  to  become  his  wife,  iron  gray  and  wrinkles  to  the 
contrary  notwithstanding  —  he  was  such  a  dear,  good  soul ! 

"  Be  happy  !  and  that  isn't  all ;  when  I  die  you  shall  have 
half  my  fortune." 

The  bachelor  kept  his  word,  and  though  he  didn't  die  of  a 
broken  heart,  he  did  not  live  many  years ;  yet  when  he  did 
die,  the  hand  of  woman  —  of  as  true  and  loving  a  woman 


THE    BACHELOR   BEAU.  305 

as  ever  made  home  a  paradise  —  smoothed  his  dying  pillow, 
and  closed  his  eyes  in  their  last  sleep  ;  and  there  were  sin« 
cere  mourners  over  his  hier. 

Poor  Mr.  Landyke  Somerset !  though  he  found  not  a  wife 
in  Sarah  Whiting,  he  found  a  true  friend. 
91* 


THE   GRAND  RECEPTION  BALL. 

CHAPTER    I. 

TIPTOP  is  somewhere  in  the  State  of  Massachusetts ;  but, 
in  consideration  of  the  unpleasant  nature  of  the  details  of 
my  story,  I  do  not  feel  at  liberty  to  state  its  precise  geo- 
graphical position.  Undoubtedly,  too,  there  are  within  the 
limits  of  our  ancient  commonwealth  a  great  many  Tiptops, 
and,  by  assigning  it  a  specific  locale,  many  whom  the  coat 
fits  will  fail  to  put  it  on. 

Tiptop  was  fully  up  with  the  times.  The  distinctions  of 
caste  were  as  precisely  defined  and  protected  as  in  New  York 
or  Philadelphia.  It  is  true,  a  belle  from  one  of  the  empo- 
riums of  fashion  would  not  have  felt  at  home  there ;  but 
then  the  Tiptopites  labored  to  -be  as  fashionable  as  the 
metropolitans,  and  if  they  did  not  succeed,  it  was  not  their 
fault. 

There  were  balls,  parties,  and  lyceums  in  Tiptop  ;  but,  un- 
fortunately for  the  luminous  propensities  of  the  "  upper  ten," 
they  were  obliged  to  call  in  the  aid  of  the  canaille  on  these 
occasions,  in  order  to  make  the  expense  fall  as  lightly  as 
possible  on  the  glorified  few. 

There  was  a  great  excitement  in  the  place  when  it  was 
understood  that  the  Hon.  Mr.  Silas  Lumpkin,  M.  C.,  from 

(306) 


THE    GSAXD   EECEPTION   BALL.  307 

one  of  the  Western  States,  proposed  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
Squire  Rogers,  his  "  chum  "  in  college. 

The  Hon.  Mr.  Lumpkin  was  a  distinguished  man  in  his 
day  and  generation.  Though  not  thirty-five  at  the  period 
of  our  story,  he  had  made  a  mark  on  the  country  which  time 
will  not  immediately  obliterate. 

But  Mr.  Lumpkin  was  a  sensible  man,  notwithstanding 
the  temptations  of  his  position  to  be  otherwise.  We  hare 
referred  to  the  Congressional  Globe,  but  we  do  not  find  that 
he  ever  made  a  long  speech,  which,  in  our  mind,  fully  es- 
tablishes his  reputation  as  a  model  Congressman. 

The  distinguished  gentleman's  visit  to  Tiptop  promised  to 
be  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  the  place.  The  notables  were 
duly  impressed  with  the  honor  which  awaited  them,  and  im- 
mediately put  their  heads  together  to  devise  a  suitable  plan 
for  a  public  demonstration.  They  fully  appreciated  the  great 
man's  condescension,  and  it  only  remained  to  make  a  proper 
expression  of  it. 

A  voluntary  committee  of  the  most  notable  of  the  notables 
waited  on  Squire  Rogers  in  this  emergency.  Unfortunately, 
the  squire  was  a  legal  man,  and  did  not  feel  competent  to 
advise  in  an  affair  of  this  kind  ;  and  the  squire,  too,  was  a 
sensible  man,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that  he  was  a 
candidate  for  the  office  of  representative  to  the  next  General 
Court,  would  probably  have  expressed  his  disgust  at  the 
whole  thing. 

But  while  the  voluntary  committee  were  discussing  a 
scheme  for  a  public  dinner  in  the  town  hall,  the  ladies  de- 
cided that  a  grand  reception  ball  should  be  given  on  the 
occasion  of  Mr.  Lumpkin's  arrival. 

Of  course  the  matter  was  settled,  for  Miss  Araminta  Pip- 


308          THE  GRAND  BECEPTION  BALL. 

kin  and  Annabellina  Punkinton  had  said  so.  Miss  Dorothea 
Pilkinton  -was  opposed  to  it  at  first,  on  account  of  the  short- 
ness of  the  time ;  hut  Miss  Pipkin  was  an  Amazon  in  an 
argument,  and  carried  the  day. 


CHAPTER    II. 

IT  was  after  dark  when  the  Hon.  Mr.  Lumpkin  arrived  at 
Tiptop.  The  Lyceum  Hall  was  already  in  a  hlaze  of  bril- 
liancy,  and  the  revellers  Avere  rapidly  gathering  to  do  honor 
to  the  man  who  had  distinguished  himself  by  holding  his 
tongue. 

Mr.  Lumpkin,  all  unconscious  of  the  honors  that  were  in 
store  for  him,  cordially  grasped  the  hand  of  Squire  Rogers 
and  entered  the  house.  He  drank  several  cups  of  particu- 
larly strong  tea,  and  found  himself  fully  refreshed  from  the 
fatigues  of  his  journey. 

"  The  hall  was  lighted  as  you  passed,  was  it  not  ? " 
asked  the  squire,  thinking  it  time  to  broach  the  subject 
of  the  complimentary  ball. 

"  The  building  on  the  hill  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  next  to  the  meeting  house." 

"  It  was." 

"  Something  grand  there  to-night ;  we  must  go  up." 

"  Political  ?  " 

"  No,  nothing  of  the  kind ;  your  friends  in  this  place, 
without  distinction  of  party,  propose  to  welcome  you  to 
Tiptop  in  a  grand  reception  ball." 

"  The  dense  they  do  !  " 

"Fact!"  and  the  squire  grinned  in  sympathy  with  the 
Hon.  Mr.  Lumpkin. 


THE    GEAND    RECEPTION    BALL.  3Q9 

"  But,  Rogers,  it's  silly." 

"  Public  men  must  humor  the  follies  of  their  constituency." 

"  Not  my  constituents,  thank  my  stars  !  I  am  not  holden 
to  them  for  my  office  ;  so  I  shall  do  them  the  honor  to  spend 
the  evening  with  you,  Rogers." 

"  But,  my  dear  Lumpkin,  the  affair  was  got  up  wholly 
on  your  account." 

"Infernally  silly  of  them — decidedly  flat." 

"  They  will  be  disappointed ;  "  and  Squire  Rogers  looked 
sad,  for  he  happened  to  think  at  that  moment  that  he  was  a 
candidate  for  the  legislature. 

"  No  matter." 

"  But  the  aristocracy  —  bah  !  —  will  be  mortally  offended 
with  me." 

"  The  what  ?  " 

"  The  affair  was  got  up  by  our  fashionables." 

"  So  much  the  better.  If  they  wish  to  make  fools  of 
themselves,  they  shall  not  do  it  at  my  expense." 

"  But  consider,  my  dear  Lumpkin,  what  a  terrible  disap- 
pointment it  will  be  to  them.  They  are  even  now  waiting 
your  arrival.  I  have  been  appointed  gentleman  usher,  to 
conduct  you  to  the  hall,  and  do  the  honors." 

"Good,  Rogers  !  "  and  Mr.  Lumpkin,  being  a  jolly,  go6d- 
natured  Congressman,  laughed  heartily,  notwithstanding  the 
consternation  of  his  legal  friend,  who  began  to  fear  that  his 
want  of  tact  would  insure  the  victory,  at  the  approaching 
election,  to  his  rival. 

"  But  the  ladies,  Lumpkin." 

This  was  a  fortunate  hit  on  the  part  of  Squire  Rogers. 
Mr.  Lumpkin  was  a  bachelor,  and,  like  bachelors  in  general, 
he  loved  the  ladies  to  distraction,  while  he  kept  them  at  a 


310  THE  GRAIO)  RECEPTION  BALI. 

safe  distance.  The  thought  of  being  the  centre  of  attrac- 
tion, amid  a  galaxy  of  bright  eyes  and  blushing  cheeks,  was 
rather  inviting  ;  but  Mr.  Lumpkin  could  not  forgive  the  Tip- 
topites  for  making  fools  of  themselves  at  his  expense. 

The  honorable  gentleman  was  a  consistent  man,  and  having 
before  decided  not  to  go,  it  was  against  his  principles  to 
change  his  mind.  There  was  a  villanous  rumor  in  circula- 
tion that  Mr.  Lumpkin,  having  unhappily  fallen  asleep 
during  the  making  of  a  certain  motion,  had  suddenly  woke 
up  and  voted  "yea,"  in  opposition  to  his  colleagues,  and 
against  the  instructions  of  his  constituents. 

Having  always  been  considered  sound  on  the  question  at 
issue,  every  body  was  surprised  at  his  vote.  He  did  not  dis- 
cover his  mistake  until  the  following  day ;  but,  being  a  con- 
sistent man,  he  defended  his  course,  and  made  the  longest 
speech  he  was  ever  known  to  make,  on  the  folly  of  instruct- 
ing public  men  who  are  sent  to  Congress  for  the  good  of 
their  country.  He  would  have  lost  his  subsequent  election, 
only  that  a  majority,  admiring  his  manly  independence,  saw 
fit  to  give  him  their  suffrages. 

Mr.  Lumpkin  had  said  no,  and  it  was  an  exceedingly  diffi- 
cult thing  for  him  to  reverse  his  sentiments,  and  say  yes. 
But  the  ladies,  being  —  as  he  eloquently  expressed  it,  in  his 
speech  on  the  necessity  of  reducing  the  duty  on  Cashmere 
shawls,  and  making  it  specific,  instead  of  ad  valorem  —  the 
bright,  particular  luminaries  of  a  republican  nation,  seemed 
to  beckon  him  to  the  ball  —  to  be  recreant  to  his  principle 
of  consistency. 

But  Mr.  Lumpkin,  in  the  true  spirit  of  our  glorious  con- 
stitution, resolved  to  compromise  the  matter,  and  go.  There 
was  a  codfish  clique  in  Tiptop,  and  Mr.  Lumpkin  considered 


THE    GRAND    RECEPTION    BALL.  311 

it  his  duty  to  punish  them.  After  making  some  arrange- 
ments with  his  friend,  whose  urgent  remonstrances  were  all 
unheeded,  he  left  the  house. 


CHAPTER    III. 

LYCEUM  HALL  blazed  with  beauty  and  tallow  candles. 
All  the  elite  of  Tiptop  were  on  tiptoe  with  expectation. 
A-fter  a  long  and  rather  stormy  discussion,  it  was  decided 
hat  Miss  Pipkin  should  dance  first  with  Mr.  Lumpkin/ 

Eight  o'clock  came,  and  the  distinguished  gentleman  did 
not  make  his  appearance.  The  less  pretentious  portion  of 
the  party  began  to  grow  impatient.  They  cared  nothing  at 
all  about  Mr.  Lumpkin ;  they  came  to  have  a  good  time,  and 
were  bound  to  enjoy  themselves,  whether  Mr.  Lumpkin  and 
his  admirers  did  or  not. 

Joe  Maple  began  to  get  a  little  mad.  He  came  with  Liz- 
zie Lee,  had  paid  for  his  ticket,  and —  as  he  expressed  it  to 
Mr.  Adolphus  Pipkin  —  he'd  like  to  know  why  they  couldn't 
go  ahead  without  Mr.  Lumpkin. 

"  Hang  me  if  I  stay  cr  pay  for  my  ticket  if  they  don't  put 
her  through  pootty  soon,"  said  he. 

"  What  are  they  waiting  for  ? "  asked  a  stranger  by 
his  side. 

"  For  Mr.  Stumpkins,  or  some  sich  name ;  but  I  ain't 
a-going  to  wait  any  longer.  What  do  you  say,  boys  —  shall 
we  back  out  if  they  don't  go  ahead  ?  " 

"  Sartin ;  go  to  the  managers,  Joe  ;  we'll  back  you  up  in 
any  thing  you  say,"  replied  several. 

"  They  ought  to  go  on,"  suggested  the  stranger. 


312  THE    GKAND    BECEPTION    BALL. 

"  Tew  be  sure  they  had  ;  so  here  goes  for  the  managers, 
They  are  so  darn  stuck  up,  they  seem  to  think  we  ain't  no- 
body ;  we'll  larn  'em  better ;  "  and  Joe  Maple  marched  for 
the  knot  of  gentlemen  who  had  charge  of  the  arrangements, 
and  who  were  wondering  why  the  distinguished  guest  of  the 
evening  did  not  appear. 

At  this  moment  Squire  Rogers  entered  the  hall.  In  reply 
to  the  managers'  queries,  he  said  Mr.  Lumpkin  had  left  his 
house  half  an  hour  before,  promising  to  meet  him  at  the 
festive  scene. 

Joe  Maple  said  the  "  boys "  meant  to  have  a  time,  any 
how,  and  he  insisted  that  the  dance  should  be  immediately 
commenced,  or  the  "  boys  "  would  make  tracks  for  "  hum." 

Joe  Maple's  party  were  in  a  very  decided  majority,  and 
their  appeal  was  irresistible.  The  band,  who  were  prepared 
to  play  "Hail  Columbia"  for  the  "grand  entree"  of  Mr. 
Lumpkin,  were  directed  to  commence  a  cotillon. 

•  The  sets  were  nearly  formed,  when  the  stranger  who  had 
before  questioned  him  requested  Joe  Maple  to  introduce  him 
to  a  partner. 

"  Sartin,"  said  Joe,  who  was  a  good-natured,  clever  fel- 
low ;  "  but  I  don't  know  ye.  What's  your  name  ?  " 

The  stranger  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said  it  was 
Smith. 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  You  ain't  the  Smith  that's  just 
moved  on  to  the  Pelatiah  Hopkins  place  ?  " 

"  Just  so,"  replied  Mr.  Smith. 

"  Well,  now,  I  am  glad  to  see  you ;  "  and  Joe  Maple  cast 
about  him  for  a  suitable  partner  for  the  new  proprietor. 

Joe  was  always  up  to  some  mischief,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  the  very  demon  of  mischief  ruled,  him  when  he 


THE    GRAND    KECEPTIOX    BALI,.  313 

glanced  at  Miss  Araminta  Pipkin,  who  was  impatiently  wait- 
ing the  arrival  of  her  distinguished  partner. 

Now,  Mr.  Smith  was  certainly  not  very  prepossessing  in  his 
external  appearance.  He  looked  very  much  like  a  country 
shopkeeper  dressed  up  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  and  Joe  Maple 
was  perfectly  satisfied  that  Miss  Pipkin  would  never  con- 
descend to  dance  with  him.  But  there  was  a  prospect  of 
some  sport,  and  though  he  and  the  amiable  leader  of  the 
Tiptop  ton  were  not  on  speaking  terms,  he  determined  to 
present  Mr.  Smith. 

"  I  want  to  introduce  Mr.  Smith  to  you,"  said  Joe,  mus- 
tering his  most  elegant  expression.  "  He  wants  a  pardner." 

Miss  Pipkin  addressed  a  languid  sneer,  first  to  Joe  Maple, 
and  then  to  Mr.  Smith. 

"  No,  I  thank  ye,"  replied  she,  briefly,  turning  away  her 
head  from  the  suppliant  at  her  feet. 

"  Hadn't  ye  better  ?  This  is  Mr.  Smith,  that  has  bought 
the  Pelatiah  Hopkins  place." 

"  You  have  my  answer ;  I  dance  with  Mr.  Lumpkin ;  " 
and  Miss  Pipkin  looked  unutterably  scornful  at  the  thought 
of  descending  from  a  member  of  Congress  even  to  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  Hopkins  place. 

"  That  is  very  plain  speech,"  suggested  Mr.  Smith. 

"  Short  as  piecrust ;  she's  right  down  smart.  But,  Mr. 
Smith,  as  you  have  bought  that  place,  you  shall  dance  with 
the  poottiest  gal  in  the  hall  —  that's  Lizzie  Lee.  She  en- 
gaged to  dance  with  me " 

"  I  could  not  think  of  disappointing  you,"  interposed  Mr. 
Smith. 

"  I  don't  stand  on  trifles.     The  fact  is,  Lizzie  and  I  under- 
stand one  another  pootty  well." 
27 


314  THE    GEAND    RECEPTION    BALL. 

Mr.  Smith  was  introduced  to  Lizzie,  who  was  all  the  en- 
amoured Mr.  Maple  had  said  she  was. 

But  the  sets  were  all  full  save  one,  in  Avhich  had  been 
reserved  a  place  for  Mr.  Lumpkin  and  the  sighing  Miss  Pip- 
kin, who  fondly  hoped  to  make  a  conquest  of  the  distin- 
guished bachelor's  heart. 

This  set  was  at  the  head  of  the  hall,  and  of  course  the 
three  couples  which  now  composed  it  were  the  cream  of  the 
aristocracy.  Mr.  Lumpkin  had  not  come,  and  Joe,  who  was 
all  attention  to  the  new  owner  of  the  Hopkins  place,  directed 
Mr.  Smith  to  lead  his  partner  to  this  vacant  position. 

Mr.  Smith  did  so.  He  was  perfectly  innocent  of  any  in- 
tention to  offend,  and  smilingly  bowed  to  his  pretty  partner. 

The  three  couples  were  aghast  at  the  coolness  and  effront- 
ery of  Mr.  Smith.  Mr.  Adolphus  Pipkin  felt  outraged,  and 
stepped  forward  to  remonstrate,  suggesting  to  the  new  lord 
of  the  Hopkins  place  that  the  head  of  the  hall  had  been 
reserved  for  Mr.  Lumpkin  and  the  accomplished  Miss  Pipkin. 

"When  he  comes,  /will  go,"  replied  Mr.  Smith,  quietly. 

"  How  rude  !  "  exclaimed  Miss  Punkinton. 

"  "What  horrible  impoliteness  !  "  added  Miss  Pilkington. 

"  Brought  up  in  the  woods,"  suggested  Miss  Smythson. 

"  I  declare,  he  smells  of  the  cow  yard,"  sneered  Miss 
Punkinton. 

"Will  you  abandon  your  position?"  asked  Mr.  Pipkin, 
fiercely. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Smith,  calmly. 

"  On  with  the  dance  !  "  shouted  Joe  Maple. 

And  on  it  went,  for  the  leader  of  the  band,  knowing  who 
nis  strongest  friends  were,  started  the  music. 

"  Sir,  you  are  no  gentleman,"  continued  Mr,  Pipkin. 


THE    GBAND    RECEPTION    BALL.  315 

"  First  couple,  lead  up  to  the  right ! "  shouted  the  caller. 

Mr.  Smith  and  Lizzie,  heing  the  first  couple,  led  up  to 
the  right,  and,  in  doing  so,  had  nearly  borne  the  enraged 
Mr.  Pipkin  under  their  feet. 

"Balancez  !  " 

"  I  demand  satisfaction,  sir." 

"  Chassez  to  the  right !  " 

Mr.  Smith  danced  furiously;  but  the  rest  of  the  set, 
horrified  at  the  idea  of  dancing  with  such  company  as  the 
owner  of  the  Hopkins  place  and  Lizzie  Lee,  abandoned  their 
positions.  Joe  Maple  instantly  filled  them  again,  and  things 
went  on  as  merrily  as  a  marriage  bell. 

Squire  Rogers  was  repeatedly  importuned  for  information 
in  regard  to  the  Hon.  Mr.  Lumpkin,  whose  consistency 
seemed  quite  as  prominent  as  it  had  ever  been  before.  Tho 
squire  assured  them  he  would  come  —  that  it  was  only  ten 
o'clock,  and  genteel  folks  never  appeared  till  a  late  hour. 

The  Hon.  Mr.  Lumpkin  did  come  at  last. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

BTTT  when  he  came,  the  proprietor  of  the  Pelatiah  Hop- 
kins place  incontinently  vamosed. 

"  Rogers,"  said  Mr.  Smith,  "  Lumpkin  is  come." 

"  High  time,"  replied  Rogers. 

"  Please  announce  the  fact." 

"  There  will  be  a  tempest ;  hadn't  we  better  have  the 
smelling  salts  handy  ?  " 

"  Ay,  cod-liver  oil  would  do  as  well ;  there  is  a  smell  of 
codfish  in  this  vicinity." 


316  THE    GRAND    RECEPTION    BALL. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  began  Squire  Rogers  to  the 
little  knot  of  uppercrusts  that  occupied  the  head  of  the  hall, 
"  I  have  /the  honor  of  informing  you  that  the  Hon.  Mr. 
Lumpkin  has  come." 

This  announcement  produced  a  very  decided  sensation. 
Miss  Araminta  Pipkin  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  almost  fainted 
in  anticipation  of  the  presentation. 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  Mr.  Adolphus  Pipkin,  glancing 
eagerly  around  the  room. 

"  The  illustrious  gentleman  is  close  at  hand." 

"  Band,  play  the  grand  march." 

The  band  struck  up  "  Hail  Columbia." 

Mr.  Smith,  exhibiting  a  most  wonderful  command  of  him- 
self, while  every  body  else  was  excited  by  the  event  about  to 
transpire,  stood  by  the  side  of  Lizzie  Lee,  engaged  in  a  ta- 
miliar  conversation.  Joe  Maple,  in  view  of  the  very  marked 
attentions  of  Mr.  Smith  to  his  intended,  had  begun  to  grow 
a  little  jealous,  and  half  regretted  that  he  had  been  so  polite 
to  the  owner  of  the  Hopkins  place. 

"  Mr.  Lumpkin,"  said  Rogers,  breaking  in  upon  the  pleas- 
ant conference,  "  the  company  wait  your  presence." 

"Hey,  squire !  this  is  Mr.  Smith,"  said  Maple. 

"  The  Hon.  Mr.  Lumpkin,"  continued  Rogers. 

"  You  will  pardon  the  little  trick  I  have  played  upon 
you,"  said  Mr.  Smith ;  "  my  name  is  Lumpkin,  M.  C." 

"  You  don't  say  so  ! "  exclaimed  Joe  Maple. 

"  Just  so." 

"And  I've  been  talking  to  you  jest  as  though  you  was  a 
common  man." 

"  So  T  am  " 

"  Mfl't  you  one  of  them  'ere  Congress  fellers  ?  " 


THE    GRAND    RECEPTION    BALI,.  317 

*'  Certainly,  but  one  of  the  people  ;  and,  between  you  and 
I  and  the  barn,  as  we  say  out  west,  I  am  no  friend  of  such 
folks  as  these  over  here  ;  "  and  Mr.  Lumpkin  pointed  signifi- 
cantly to  the  elite  of  Tiptop. 

"  You  are  a  brick,  squire !  "  and  Joe  hawhawed  with 
right  good  will ;  "  but  I  suppose  we  shan't  see  you  again  to- 
night if  you  are  going  over  there  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  Miss  Lee,  I  claim  your  hand  for  the  next  dance, 
according  to  your  promise." 

"  I  shall  be  almost  afraid  to  dance  with  you  now,"  sim- 
pered Lizzie. 

"  Hush,  Liz  !  talk  up  to  him,"  whispered  Joe ;  "  a  Con- 
gress chap  ain't  any  better  than  any  body  else." 

"  Mr.  Lumpkin,  your  admirers  will  become  impatient," 
suggested  Squire  Rogers,  with  an  ironical  smile. 

"  Excuse  me  for  a  few  moments,  Miss  Lee ; "  and  Mr. 
Lumpkin,  taking  the  arm  of  the  squire,  walked  towards 
the  head  of  the  hall. 

Joe  Maple,  whose  keen  relish  for  "  some  sport "  did  not 
permit  him  to  remain  in  the  background,  followed  in  their 
wake. 

"  Miss  Pipkin,  the  Hon.  Mr.  Lumpkin,"  said  Squire  Rogers. 

The  amiable  lady  raised  her  eyes,  which  had  been  fixed 
in  maidenly  coyness  upon  the  floor,  and  beheld  the  abomina- 
ble Mr.  Smith,  the  abhorred  owner  of  the  Pelatiah  Hopkins 
place  ! 

"Why  —  I  —  yes  —  I  declare  —  I  have  met  —  you  be- 
fore this  evening,"  stammered  the  leader  of  the  female  ton. 

"  Should  rather  think  you  had  !  "  roared  Joe  Maple,  who 
has  since  declared  that  he  thought  "  he  should  ha'  died  a 
larfin'." 

27* 


318  THE    GKAND    RECEPTION    BAM,. 

"  We  have  ;  I  had  the  honor  of  he-ing  refused  the  pleas- 
ure of  your  hand  at  the  first  dance,"  said  Mr.  Lumpkin,  with 
a  full  display  of  congressional  dignity. 

"  Mr.  Pipkin,  the  Hon.  Mr.  Lumpkin,  M.  C.,  from  the 
west,"  continued  Squire  Rogers,  who,  notwithstanding  he 
felt  a  little  nervous  on  account  of  the  seat  in  the  legislature, 
was  in  very  tolerable  spirits,  and  heartily  enjoyed  the  dis- 
comfiture of  the  "  codfish  "  party. 

"  Happy  to  know  you,  Mr.  Pipkin.  You  demanded  sat- 
isfaction of  me  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening  ;  should  he 
happy  to  afford  it." 

"  You  will  pardon  me,  sir ;  there  was  some  mistake ;  I 
would  not  of  course  have  spoken  in  that  manner  to  a  mem- 
ber of  Congress." 

Mr.  Lumpkin,  not  being  above  the  infirmities  of  human 
nature,  sneered  rather  rudely  at  the  Tiptop  exquisite,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "You  ought  to  treat  every  body  well, 
whether  they  are  public  or  private  individuals." 

The  master  of  ceremonies  discharged  the  duties  of  his 
office  with  punctilious  formality.  It  seemed  to  the  sufferers 
that  he  was  unnecessarily  minute  in  his  presentation  ceremo- 
nial, permitting  the  distinguished  gentleman  to  make  a  home 
thrust  at  each  one  of  the  persons  who  had  been  so  rude  to 
Mr.  Smith. 

The  introductions  were  happily  concluded,  and  a  more 
chopfallen  set  than  the  elite  of  Tiptop  never  gathered  to- 
gether in  the  same  hall. 

Miss  Pipkin  was  in  an  agony.  She  had  actually  turned 
up  her  nose  to  a  member  of  Congress.  Of  course  she  could 
no  longer  hope  to  make  a  conquest  of  his  heart ;  the  vision 
of  being  a  distinguished  lady  melted  quite  away. 


THE    GBA3TD    BECEPTION   BALL.  319 

But  then  "it  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  no  one  any 
good."  If  Miss  Pipkin  could  not  have  a  member  of  Con- 
gress, she  at  least  had  the  consolation  of  saying  that  she  had 
refused  the  hand  of  the  Hon.  Mr.  Lumpkin,  which,  to  a  lady 
of  her  peculiar  turn  of  mind,  was  an  immense  satisfaction. 

Mr.  Lumpkin  returned  to  the  side  of  Lizzie  Lee,  who, 
maugre  her  coyness,  was  tolerably  sociable.  Joe  Maple, 
from  the  abundance  of  his  good  nature,  vowed  he  might 
dance  with  her  just  as  many  times  as  he  pleased. 

About  eleven  o'clock,  Miss  Pipkin  suggested  to  her  broth- 
er that  the  delicate  state  of  her  health  would  not  permit  her 
to  endure  the  excitement  of  the  dance  any  longer,  and  when 
the  leader  of  the  ton  left,  the  followers  went  after  her. 

But  the  common  folks  "  staid  it  out,"  and  Mr.  Lumpkin 
confessed  that  he  enjoyed  the  ball  very  much  indeed ;  for, 
true  to  his  duty  as  a  public  man,  it  had  enabled  him  to  ad- 
minister a  suitable  reproof  to  the  pretensions  of  the  Tip- 
topites. 

Joe  Maple  and  Lizzie  Lee  —  since  Mrs.  Maple  —  have  not 
yet  forgotten  the  part  they  acted,  and  perhaps  they  may  be 
pardoned  for  a  slight  display  of  vanity  as  they  relate  the 
particulars  of  The  Grand  Reception  Ball. 


GETTING  AN  INDORSEE. 

CHAPTER    I. 

MY  friend,  Frank  Howard,  was  a  dry  goods  dealer  on 
"Washington  Street.  When  I  made  his  acquaintance,  he 
was  one  of  the  most  active  and  successful  salesmen  in  the 
trade,  and  being  a  prudent  man,  had  saved  a  small  sum  of 
money,  with  which  and  the  credit  he  might  be  able  to  ob- 
tain, he  proposed  to  commence  business  on  his  own  account. 

Among  his  acquaintances  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  in- 
clude a  wealthy  merchant,  whose  judgment  had  led  him  to 
form  a  lofty  estimate  of  the  business  capacity  of  my  friend. 

To  him  the  young  aspirant  for  mercantile  honors  stated 
his  case,  and  the  conference  ended  in  a  voluntary  proposition 
on  the  part  of  the  merchant  to  supply  the  goods  necessary 
to  stock  his  store,  taking  his  notes,  the  first  of  which  would 
fall  due  in  one  year,  in  payment. 

The  arrangement  was  competed,  and  in  a  few  days  Frank 
found  himself  installed  in  a  convenient  store,  on  the  best 
part  of  the  street,  ready  to  strike  for  his  fortune. 

C320) 


GETTING    AN   INDORSEE.  321 

The  notes  had  not  been  signed,  and  one  evening,  on  some 
business  connected  with  them,  Frank  called,  by  appointment, 
at  the  princely  mansion  of  his  worthy  benefactor.  He  was 
ushered  into  the  sitting  room,  where  the  merchant  was  read- 
ing the  evening  paper.  By  his  side  sat  a  beautiful  young 
lady,  to  whom  his  patron  politely  introduced  him. 

My  friend  belonged  to  that  anomalous  class  of  beings 
styled  "handsome  men;  "  at  least  the  ladies  all  said  he  was 
nandsome,  though  for  the  life  of  me  I  never  could  tell  where- 
in his  beauty  consisted.  But  as  I  have  no  particular  fane) 
for  masculine  beauty,  it  may  have  escaped  my  notice,  or  the 
natural  selfishness  of  mankind  may  have  prejudiced  my 
judgment. 

My  friend  was  acknowledged  by  all  the  ladies  to  be  a  re- 
markably handsome  man ;  and,  probably,  this  was  the  secret 
of  his  immense  success  as  a  salesman.  Whether  he  reckoned 
his  beauty  as  one  of  the  items  of  his  stock  in  trade,  when  he 
went  into  business,  I  am  unable  to  say ;  but  I  have  not  the 
least  doubt  he  based  his  hopes  of  success,  to  a  great  extent, 
upon  the  influence  of  his  prepossessing  personal  appearance. 

Frank  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  young  lady,  as  the  merchant, 
who  had,  when  he  entered,  half  read  a  money  article  in  his 
paper,  turned  to  finish  it.  Miss  Allen  —  such  was  the  name 
by  which  she  had  been  presented  to  him  —  was  busily  en- 
gaged in  crocheting  a  little  silk  purse,  and  as  she  bent  over 
the  work,  Frank  was  perfectly  satisfied  that  he  had  never 
seen  so  pretty  a  face  in  his  life. 

And  then  the  neatest,  most  graceful  little  foot  in  the 
world  protruded  from  beneath  a  light  silk  dress  — a  foot 
which  completely  turned  Frank's  head,  so  that  he  forgot  all 
about  the  notes  and  the  merchant. 


322  GETTING   AN    INDORSEE. 

Without  the  least  regard  to  etiquette,  politeness,  good 
breeding,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  he  stared  mercilessly  at 
her,  and  never,  for  even  the  fraction  of  a  moment,  removed 
his  gaze,  not  even  allowing  himself  the  luxury  of  winking, 
lest  the  time  so  employed  should  be  lost. 

Frank  was  perfectly  sure  that  he  had  never  before  felt 
exactly  as  he  did  at  that  halcyon  moment.  It  seemed  as 
though  all  the  divinities  of  paradise  were  concentrated  in  the 
fair  form  before  him,  as  though  he  had  been  transplanted  to 
an  Elysium  of  love. 

And  the  maiden  was  not  altogether  unmoved.  The  em- 
bryo merchant  several  times  detected  her  in  the  act  of  steal- 
ing a  glance  at  him  through  the  long,  fringing  eyelashes  that 
adorned  her  peerless  brow.  He  plainly  saw  her  blush ;  saw 
her  bosom  heave  with  a  flutter  as  she  caught  his  earnest 
gaze. 

Frank  Howard  was  a  handsome  man;  and  somehow  or 
other,  men  and  women  who  are  favored  in  this  respect  al- 
ways contrive  to  find  it  out.  Frank  knew  that  he  was  a 
handsome  man,  and  never  in  his  life  did  he  more  devoutly 
thank  his  stars,  which  had  given  him  personal  beauty,  than 
at  this  particular  moment. 

The  lady  had  already  found  out  that  he  was  handsome, 
and  if  the  stupid  fellow  had  not  stared  so  furiously  at  her, 
she  would  no  doubt  have  done  the  same  thing  he  was  doing. 

Mr.  Allen  finished  the  money  article,  and  laid  down  the 
paper.  Frank  has  owned  to  me  that  he  wished  it  had  been 
twice,  or  even  four  times  as  long. 

The  details  of  the  business  were  discussed,  and  the  papers 
drawn.  While  it  was  in  progress,  Frank  more  than  once 
detected  the  beautiful  fairy  in  the  act  of  looking  at  him ; 


GETTING   AN    INDORSEE.  323 

several  times  detected  her  in  the  very  act  of  blushing,  when 
their  eyes  met. 

The  business  was  finished  at  last,  much  to  the  regret  of 
my  handsome  friend,  who,  when  he  got  into  the  street,  went 
straightway  into  a  fit  of  abstraction,  and  had  walked  half 
way  across  Charlestown  bridge,  on  his  way  home,  before  he 
happened  to  think  that  he  lived  at  the  South  End. 

It  was  all  up  with  poor  Frank ;  he  had  fallen  in  love  — 
was  stark,  staring  mad  in  love  —  with  whom  he  knew  not, 
for  it  was  well  known  that  Mr.  Allen  had  no  daughter.  She 
was  a  relative,  however,  for  she  bore  his  name. 

But  if  Frank  was  in  love,  there  was  some  consolation  in 
the  fact,  that  the  fair  creature  who  had  stolen  his  heart  was 
in  the  same  predicament. 

The  next  day,  she  came  a  shopping  at  his  store,  and  the 
next,  and  the  next ;  indeed,  almost  every  day.  No  conver- 
sation had  passed  between  them ;  and,  though  he  had  been 
introduced  on  the  evening  of  his  visit,  he  had  been  too  much 
overwhelmed  to  use  words. 

My  friend,  however,  did  not  lack  that  necessary  attribute 
of  a  successful  wooer,  somewhat  vulgarly  termed  "  spunk." 
He  had  no  further  business  with  the  merchant ;  but  then  his 
case  was  a  desperate  one,  and  he  made  an  errand. 

Miss  Allen  blushed  as  he  entered,  but  she  was  social  and 
agreeable  to  the  last  degree,  so  much  so  that  Frank  staid  till 
the  bells  rung  for  nine  o'clock  before  he  knew  it.  The  ice 
was  broken,  and  my  friend  was  in  for  it. 

The  lady  was  a  niece  of  the  merchant,  twenty-one  years 
of  age,  and  an  heiress.  In  the  course  of  a  few  months, 
Frank's  energy  Avon  the  victory,  and  it  was  understood  that 
they  were  engaged. 


324  GETTING   AN    INDORSEE. 

The  merchant  did  not  like  it.  Being  somewhat  exclusive 
in  his  ideas  of  social  intercourse,  the  prospective  marriage 
of  his  wealthy  niece  to  a  poor  retailer  was  repugnant  to  the 
last  degree,  and  he  resolved  to  thwart  the  purpose  of  the 
loving  couple. 

At  first,  he  appealed  to  the  lady;  but  she  only  laughed  at 
him ;  told  him  bluntly  that  she  loved  Mr.  Howard,  and  would 
have  him.  Then  he  reasoned  with  Frank  on  his  ingratitude 
to  him,  his  benefactor.  The  young  man  was  touched,  and 
promised  to  consider  it. 

He  did  consider  it,  and  his  loving  inamorata  helped  him 
consider  it.  After  a  hasty  deliberation,  it  was  unanimously 
agreed  to  lay  the  whole  matter  "  on  the  table." 

Mr.  Allen  was  informed  of  the  decision,  and  as  old  fogies 
always  do  when  they  cannot  do  any  thing  else,  bit  his  lip  and 
swallowed  his  words,  fully  resolved  to  do  something  dread- 
ful, Avhenever  an  opportunity  occurred. 


CHAPTER    II. 

A  TEAK  after  my  friend  went  into  business,  as  I  passed 
his  Store  one  morning,  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  find  it 
closed.  Before  the  window  was  that  ominous  white  cloth, 
denoting  that  the  occupant  had  failed. 

I  entered  the  store.  Frank  stood  at  his  desk,  glancing 
with  a  most  woe-begone  aspect  at  the  pages  of  his  leger. 

"  How's  this,  Frank  ?  "  I  asked  ;  and  I  never  was  moro 
surprised  in  my  life. 

"  Bu'st  up  !  don't  you  see? "  replied  he,  rather  petulantly 

"  But  what  does  it  mean  ?  " 


GETTING   AN    INDOESES.  325 

"  Mean  !  Why,  that  I  had  a  note  of  a  thousand  dollars, 
due  yesterday,  which  I  could  not  pay ;  and  this  morning 
early,  my  amiable  friend,  Mr.  Allen,  put  in  a  keeper — • 
that's  all." 

"  How  does  it  happen  ?  I  thought  you  were  doing  a 
rushing  business." 

"  So  I  was.  I  had  the  money  to  pay  this  note  six  weeks 
ago,  and  let  Smith  have  it  at  two  per  cent,  a  month,"  re- 
plied he,  with  a  ghastly  smile. 

"  And  Smith  has  failed  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly.  He  has  stopped ;  but  every  body  says  he 
is  good,  if  he  has  time  to  turn  himself." 

"  And  you  must  make  a  fail  of  it  in  the  mean  time  ?  ". 

"  If  I  could  only  stave  off  Mr.  Allen  a  couple  of  months, 
I  could  get  out  of  the  «crape  with  flying  colors." 

"Won't  he  wait?" 

Frank  shook  his  head ;  he  had  mortally  offended  the  proud 
merchant,  and  there  was  no  prospect  that  he  would  be  leni- 
ent in  the  slightest  degree. 

"  Can't  you  raise  the  money  ?  " 

"  No  ;  times  haven't  been  so  hard  for  four  years.  Every 
body  is  failing,  and  the  money  men  wont  trust  their  own 
fathers." 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Allen  entered  the  store.  He  looked 
stern  and  severe,  like  one  who  has  the  power  in  his  own 
hands,  and  is  disposed  to  use  it.  I  seated  myself  near  the 
desk,  as  he  approached. 

The  merchant  politely  saluted  the  unfortunate  dealer, 
smiling  as  blandly  as  though  nothing  had  happened;  as 
though  he  had  no  niece,  and  Frank  were  a  Stoic. 

"  Mr.  Howard,  this  is  unfortunate ;  but  in  the  midst  of 
28 


326  GETTING   AN    INDOBSEB. 

BO  much,  commercial  disaster,  you  perceive  that  it  was  my 
only  course,"  said  the  merchant,  soothingly. 

"  I  suppose  it  was ;  but  you  know  the  cause  of  my  inabil- 
ity to  pay  the  note,"  returned  Frank,  with,  a  doleful  ex- 
pression. 

"  Ah,  young  man,  you  ought  not  to  have  lent  the  money 
to  Smith;  if  you  had  asked  my  advice,  I  could  have  told 
you  better." 

"  Smith  was  always  supposed  to  be  good." 

The  merchant  shook  his  head. 

"But,  Mr.  Allen,  give  me  a  short  time,  and  I  can  pay  the 
note.  Smith  assures  me  he  shall  recover  himself." 

"  Mr.  Howard,  I  certainly  wish  you  well ;  I  have  done 
all  I  could  to  give  you  a  fair  start." 

"  So  you  have,  sir,  and  I  am  very  grateful  to  you." 

"  Are  you  ?  "  and  the  merchant  fixed  a  keen  glance  upon 
the  young  man. 

"  I  assure  you  that  I  am." 

"  How  have  you  manifested  it  ?  "  continued  the  merchant, 
sternly.  "But  no  matter  ;  we  meet  now  as  business  men." 

"  Well,  what  shall  be  done  ?  You  have  stopped  me ;  I 
can  do  no  more." 

"I  don't  wish  to  be  hard.  I  would  wait  if  prudence 
would  justify  it,"  said  Mr.  Allen,  who  was  keenly  sensitive 
in  regard  to  his  reputation  for  generosity  and  fairness. 

In  fact,  he  was  a  man  of  good  feelings,  and  only  that  he 
meant  to  punish  Frank  for  falling  in  love  with  his  wealthy 
niece,  would  not  have  disturbed  him. 

"You  will  be  just  as  secure  two  months  hence  as  now," 
pleaded  Frank. 

"  I  have  not  that  confidence  in  you,  Mr.  Howard,  —  I  say 


GETTING   AN   INDORSEE.  327 

it  frankly,  —  which  I  had  once.  You  have  lost  a  thousand 
dollars.  I  doubt  if  your  stock,  under  the  hammer,  would 
pay  my  notes." 

Frank  looked  savage,  for  though  he  was  crestfallen,  he 
was  Frank  Howard  yet,  and  felt  keenly  the  unjust  imputa- 
tion of  the  merchant. 

"  I  wish  to  be  fair,  and  even  indulgent,"  continued  Mr. 
Allen,  before  Frank  had  time  to  utter  the  ungracious  senti- 
ment that  rose  to  his  lips.  "  Here  is  the  note  ;  give  me  one 
good  indorser,  and  I  will  wait  two  months." 

Frank  looked  up,  and  smiled  in  contempt  at  the  miserable 
subterfuge  of  the  merchant,  who  meant  to  crush  him,  and 
still  preserve  an  appearance  of  fairness.  He  knew  it  would 
be  impossible  for  the  young  man,  with  his  stock  encum- 
bered, to  procure  the  security. 

"  Will  you  take  Smith  ?  "  asked  Frank,  hurriedly. 

"Of  course  not,"  replied  Mr.  Allen,  with  a  bland  smile. 

"  I  will  see  what  can  be  done ;  but  I  think  the  case  is 
hopeless." 

The  merchant  withdrew,  assured  in  his  own  mind  that  his 
revenge  was  sure,  and  his  reputation  safe,  at  the  same  time. 

Frank  and  myself  canvassed  the  matter,  but  we  could 
think  of  no  person  whose  milk  of  human  kindness  was  suf- 
ficiently abundant  to  prompt  him  to  do  such  an  insane  act. 
While  we  were  debating  the  matter,  Frank  was  struck  up 
by  the  entrance  of  Miss  Allen. 

"How  gloomy  you  look  here  to-day,  Frank,"  said  she, 
laughing,  and  showing  in  the  act  the  prettiest  row  of  pearly 
teeth  I  ever  saw. 

"We  are  gloomy,  indeed,"  replied  Frank,  mustering  a 
sickly  smile.  "  But  you  know  the  reason  ? " 


328  GETTING    AN    INDOESER. 

"  Why,  what  reason  ? "  asked  she,  her  merry  expression 
relapsing  into  a  serious  one. 

"  You  see  that  man  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  He  is  a  keeper  !  "  replied  Frank,  with  tragic  effect. 

'*  A  keeper  !  of  what  ?  Are  you  insane  ? "  responded  the 
lady,  playfully ;  for  it  must  be  confessed  she  was  not  ac- 
quainted with  the  technicalities  of  business. 

Frank  laughed,  and  explained  the  disaster  which  had 
overtaken  him. 

"  Poh  !  "  exclaimed  she,  with  an  appearance  of  relief;  and 
I  really  believe,  if  the  keeper  and  myself  had  not  been  in  the 
way,  she  would  have  thrown  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
kissed  away  his  mortification. 

I  had  before  been  introduced  to  the  lady,  and  at  this  mo- 
ment advanced  to  join  in  the  conversation. 

"  And  my  uncle  is  the  wretch  ?  "  continued  she,  merrily. 
"  But  what  can  you  do  ?  How  can  you  get  out  of  it  ?  " 

Frank  explained  the  proposition  to  procure  an  indorser 
for  the  note.  The  light-hearted  maiden  appeared  to  have 
but  little  sympathy  for  the  misfortunes  of  her  lover,  and 
asked  all  sorts  of  questions  about  indorsers,  notes,  and 
business  forms. 

"  Where  is  the  note  you  are  to  have  indorsed  ?  "  asked 
she. 

"  Mr.  Allen  has  it." 

"  How  can  you  have  it  indorsed,  then  ?  " 

"  I  can  write  another,"  replied  Frank,  smiling  at  the  inno- 
cence of  his  betrothed. 

"  Then  write  one,"  said  she,  promptly. 

Frank  looked  at  her  a  moment,  to  ascertain  what  mischief 


GETTING   AN    INDORSEE.  329 

was  lurking  in  her  mind.     She  smiled,  apparently  without 
the  power  to  prevent  it. 

The  lover,  impelled  by  curiosity  as  much  as  any  other 
motive,  wrote  the  note  and  signed  it. 

"  Now  how  do  you  indorse  it  ? "  asked  she. 

"  By  writing  the  name  across  the  back." 

The  lady  approached  the  desk,  and  turning  the  note,  wrote, 
•with  two  dashes  of  the  pen,  "  Isabel  Allen,"  across  it. 

"  It  is  indorsed,"  said  she,  with  a  smile,  which  told  Frank 
all  she  meant. 

"  But,  Isabel " 

"Good  morning,  Frank,"  interrupted  she,  and  hastened 
out  of  the  store. 

"  Bravo,  Frank !  "  exclaimed  I. 

He  smiled  doubtfully.     His  pride  was  a  little  touched. 

"  Would  you  use  it  ?  "  said  he,  after  a  long  pause. 

"  Use  it  ?  to  be  sure  !  "  and  he  did  use  it. 

In  the  afternoon  Mr.  Allen  called,  satisfied  in  his  own 
mind  that  he  should  witness  the  complete  humiliation  of  the 
young  man,  who  had  had  the  audacity  to  fall  in  love  with  an 
heiress.  Knowing  at  what  hour  he  would  call,  I  was  careful 
to  be  present. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Howard,  how  have  you  succeeded  ?  I  have 
really  been  in  hopes  you  will  be  able  to  secure  the  paper," 
said  the  merchant ;  and  I  could  plainly  discern  the  malicious 
chuckle  on  his  face  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  have  succeeded,  Mr.  Allen ;  and  I  am  infinitely  obliged 
to  you  for  your  good  will." 

The  merchant  was  completely  staggered  at  the  reply.  It 
was  wholly  unexpected,  and  wholly  unwelcome  also. 

"  I  trust  y9u  have  procured  a  good  one,"  said  he,  painfully. 
28* 


330  GETTING   AN    INDOKSEB. 

"  A  wealthy  one,  but  a  name  unknown  on  State  Street." 

"  Can't  take  it,  then,"  answered  the  merchant,  promptly, 
and  with  renewed  hope. 

"  But  a  name  well  known  to  you ! "  and  Frank  handed 
him  the  note. 

Mr.  Allen  started  back  in  surprise  and  anger,  as  he  read 
the  name  of  the  fair  indorser. 

"Very  well,  sir;  when  a  man  of  any  delicacy  can  resort 
to  such  a  trick  as  this,  I  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him." 
And  the  crestfallen  merchant,  after  throwing  the  old  note 
on  the  counter,  hastened  indignantly  from  the  store. 

The  keeper  was  withdrawn,  and  Frank  heard  no  more 
from  Mr.  Allen.  A  week  after  Smith  paid  the  money,  and 
Frank  took  up  his  note. 

Before  another  of  the  notes  came  due,  Isabel  Allen  had 
become  Mrs.  Frank  Howard.  The  stock  and  stand  were 
sold  out,  the  debts  paid,  and  my  handsome  friend  is  as 
happy  as  a  beautiful  wife,  with  a  heart  full  of  love,  can 
make  him. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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